


Bridge Over Troubled Water and Other Stories

by Velichorr



Series: VWverse: In Sunlight and Shadow [3]
Category: Inglourious Basterds (2009)
Genre: 1970s, 1980s, Character Study, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Future Fic, Grief/Mourning, Heavy Angst, Non-Chronological, Terminal Illnesses
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-08
Updated: 2020-11-20
Packaged: 2021-03-01 21:27:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 19
Words: 29,690
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23833870
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Velichorr/pseuds/Velichorr
Summary: “I’m scared.” She said, for what felt like the thousandth time.“I know. I know…So am I.”1979. Hans and Sylvia try to come to terms with his terminal cancer.7/18/2020: Bonus chapters added!
Relationships: Hans Landa/Original Female Character(s)
Series: VWverse: In Sunlight and Shadow [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1684861
Comments: 6
Kudos: 5





	1. Bridge Over Troubled Water

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Velvet Waltz](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20592395) by [AttendezlaCreme](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AttendezlaCreme/pseuds/AttendezlaCreme). 



In the summer of 1979, Hans’ cancer came back. Just as they had always feared it would. This time, it metastasized, and there was simply nothing they could do. Hans needed oxygen and painkillers, but that was all. Neither he nor Sylvia wanted their room to feel like a hospital room. They spent many hours just sitting in bed together, reading or talking or watching TV. It felt almost normal. Almost. Hans was so weak, she had to help him walk to and from the bathroom. She supported him while he showered. There were times he would have slipped and fallen had she not been there to catch him.

Life had become quiet and peaceful. Their world was small. They held each other and basked in each other’s company. Soft kisses, gentle touches, and whispered ‘I love yous’. There were times Hans slept almost the entire day. But Sylvia didn’t mind. She patiently waited for him to wake up, and they would go on like everything was normal. This _was_ their new normal.

He was too weak to dress himself. Sylvia had to help him put on his pajamas. But he insisted on feeding himself, even though his hands shook, and he was always exhausted afterward. If Hans couldn’t feed himself, he would just starve. He was too proud to be treated like a baby. Sylvia tried to honor that as much as possible. She wanted to help her husband, but she didn’t want him to feel like an invalid or a child either.

So they tried to find a balance. Keep Hans comfortable and free of pain, but not sedated. He didn’t want to spend his last weeks drugged out of his mind. She knew he needed to keep his mind sharp. On his better days, he wanted to work on his memoir. Sylvia set him up with a typewriter on a tray. He was so excited, so zealous about his writing, it was easy to forget he was dying. Sylvia always gave Hans his privacy while he wrote, but she stayed close by in case he needed her.

One day, slumped against a mountain of pillows, Hans announced he just couldn’t do it anymore. He’d been hacking up blood. A bright red stream ran down the front of his pajama shirt.

“Angel…I’m so very sorry, but…I just don’t think I can do this any longer. I’m afraid I’ve run out of strength.” He shuddered, and burst into another coughing fit. His eyes drifted close.

Sylvia grabbed a fistful of tissues, frantically mopping up the blood. “Hans, you’re _coughing up blood,_ and you’re worried about your damn memoir?” she looked at him with fear in her eyes.

He weakly shook his head. “What I’m saying is…I want you to take over for me. Why don’t you have a look at what I’ve written?” he gestured at the paper in the typewriter.

It read: _My time has almost come. I fear I am nearing the end of my life. It was very difficult just to type all of this. I need to conserve what little strength I have. My body is getting weaker by the day, and everything is a struggle now. I don’t want to leave, yet I have no choice. Despite all my charms and impeccable observational skills, not even I can bend nature to my will. Death is the greatest detective of all. It’s almost amusing, isn’t it?_

 _He always finds you, regardless of whether you are ready. So I will go to him. I’ll meet him with my head held high and a smile on my face. Death and I have an_ intimate _relationship. You might say he’s an old comrade- we have quite a bit of catching up to do. Yes, I have much to answer for. I’m not sure what awaits me in the next life, if indeed there is one. But I know this for certain: I entrust my manuscript to my beloved wife, Sylvia. I trust her to complete my memoir after I am no longer living. I trust her with my life. Sylvia, you are extraordinarily brave, and I have tremendous faith in you. I love you._

With tears in her eyes, Sylvia threw her arms around Hans’ neck and hugged him tightly. She buried her face in his shoulder, sniffling.

“Hans, oh God, Hans…”

Hans patted her back. He leaned forward, looking at her with pain in his eyes. “Sylvia…Is this too much to ask of you? You’re aware how I feel about our _situation,_ and I’ve never been the world’s greatest invalid. I don’t want to be a burden on you in my final days. I assure you, that’s the last thing I want.”

Sylvia took a deep breath. Her cheeks were blotchy and wet now. She wiped her damp eyes on the back of her hand. “No, it’s not too much. I can handle this. I’ll finish your book, I promise. I owe you that much.” She gently took his face in her hands. “Hey. Hans, you are _not_ a burden. You never have been, and you never will be. I’m doing all this because I _love_ you, and I’m sure you would do the same for me.”

She kissed him, and they held it for a long time. There was passion in it. Lust. Desperation. They both craved intimacy, they had to make the most of what little time they had left. Sylvia’s answer seemed to satisfy Hans. He gave a slight nod.

“You’re a clever girl. I knew you would make the right choice…” he reached to take her hand, and Sylvia held it.

Then, Hans closed his eyes. He was asleep within minutes. Sylvia sighed. Everything tired him out now. It was difficult for them both.

There were some days it felt like the phone never stopped ringing. The hospice people. Hans’ agent. His doctor. The publisher. Sylvia fielded many of these calls, but if it was for Hans, she passed it along to him. She suspected Hans was the only reason she hadn’t gone crazy by now. His smile and his words of affection kept her going. Even now, his hazel eyes were still so bright. Full of life. It was crazy to think about him dying, but here they were.

Sylvia knew it wasn’t healthy to stay cooped up in the house all day. But she couldn’t bring herself to leave Hans’ side. He was her first priority at all times. When Hans felt up to it, Sylvia helped him walk outside, if only for a few hours. The fresh air was good for both of them. At night, they spread a blanket on the grass and watched the stars. The stars were there long before they were born; and would still be there after they were gone. There was something both sad and comforting in that. How could something so beautiful be so distant and out of reach? They were mortal, finite. But the stars could go on for nearly forever until they simply burned out.

“Sylvia?” Hans asked one night, his arm wrapped around her shoulder.

“Yeah?”

There was complete silence except for crickets chirping in the distance. It was glorious. It was only them and the night sky.

“I once said I’d love you until the stars faded. Do you remember that?”

Sylvia smiled. “I do, actually. Why?”

He gave her shoulder a gentle squeeze, then reached out to stroke her cheek. “Because it hasn’t changed. I will _never_ stop loving you. Did you really believe death would stop that?”

Sylvia flinched. She knew it was childish, a knee-jerk reaction, but she couldn’t stand it when Hans talked about death. She hated acknowledging it. Every day brought him closer and closer to the end, but when would that be? It could be days, weeks, even a month. The hospice told them to just take it one day at a time.

“No, I didn’t.” she finally said, frowning. “It’s just, I don’t know what’s worse: knowing, or not knowing.”

Hans gave her one of those sad-but-knowing expressions. “It’s unfortunate to think about, but all we’re doing is merely prolonging the inevitable. Death is patient, but one can hardly expect him to wait forever.” He cleared his throat. “That reminds me…There’s an excellent poem by one of your poets, Emily Dickinson. I’m certain you know it: Because I could not stop for death, he kindly stopped for me…”

Sylvia grimaced. Her whole body tensed. She said, a little tersely:

“Hans, I just don’t understand how you can be so…So nonchalant about this. If _I_ were the one dying, I’d probably have a damn breakdown. I don’t want to sound selfish, but once you’re gone, my whole life will change forever. I can’t even imagine spending the rest of my life without you.”

“I know it must be difficult to conceive now, but I wasn’t **always** a part of your life. You got along perfectly well without me for thirty years, didn’t you? Try looking at it that way. Do I think that there’s _something_ after death? An afterlife, perhaps another world? No. But not even _I_ know everything- shocking, I know! If I am wrong, I’ll wait for you for however long it takes. If not…” Hans looked up at the flickering stars, trying to find the words he needed. He sighed. “If not, well, then I suppose this is all there is. There’s not much either of us can do about that. But either way, Sylvia, I want you to remember me. When you feel sad. When you feel alone. When you remember the time we spent together. It’s not much, I know, but it’s _something._ Talk to someone, if you absolutely must.”

Sylvia knew Hans was referring to a therapist or psychiatrist. The thought had admittedly never crossed her mind. She’d never gone to a psychiatrist before or known someone who had. There was such a big stigma surrounding it.

“I’m not crazy.” She said, very softly. Again, she wondered how she would handle all this. It was so overwhelming. Like nothing she had ever experienced.

“Did I say you **were?** ” Hans retorted, sounding the slightest bit hurt. “It might do you good to see a psychiatrist, that’s all I’m saying. It’s only a suggestion, nothing more…”

Sylvia shifted around slightly on the blanket, trying to get more comfortable. She was trying so hard to hold it all together, but inside, she was falling apart. “No, no, you’re right….Maybe I should. I didn’t want to sound harsh, I’m sorry. But the fact is, we’re dealing with uncharted territory. And I’m scared. I’m so scared.” She admitted, sounding frightened and a little breathless. Here she was, baring herself to Hans. Would any person understand her better, or know her more intimately?

“So am I.” Hans rested a protective hand on her shoulder. “I need you to tell my story, angel. It’s the only way you can keep me alive…”

“I will.” She whispered; her expression somber. “I’ll make it my damn life’s work if I have to.”

Hans ran a hand through her hair. “Just don’t work yourself too hard, you know I don’t like it when you do that…”

They lay down together and watched the stars for the longest time. Hans pointed out some of the constellations and explained their significance. Although it got colder at night, neither of them minded much. They were just happy to be outside. They stayed up to watch the sunrise. The sky was awash in brilliant shades of orange, pink, and blue. Though it was something that happened every day, it was indescribably beautiful. When morning finally came, they staggered inside for a quick breakfast, then promptly passed out in bed.

One afternoon, they were sitting in bed, watching one of the James Bond films on TV. Hans said, in the most ridiculous faux British accent: “You _disgust_ me. Pigs, the lot of you!” They both burst out laughing.

“God, I’m going to miss you…” Sylvia said, without even thinking. She instantly regretted it. “Shit. I shouldn’t have said that.” She stiffened and wrapped her arms around her chest.

“No, no, it’s quite all right…” Hans gently chided her. He quickly silenced her with a kiss. “ _I_ don’t really want to die, you know. But I suppose I have nothing to complain about. I’m eighty-five, and I’m fortunate to have made it this far. I hate to sound morbid, but I’m twenty years older than you, angel. We knew this was going to happen eventually.”

He just stared off into the distance. He looked serious, but so terribly frightened. It was the face, Sylvia realized, of a man who had come to terms with his own mortality. And she realized he was right. Maybe she always had known, if only subconsciously. Even if she couldn’t face it until now.

“We did, but we weren’t ready. Fuck, I don’t think **anyone** knows how to prepare for this…” Sylvia sounded much more bitter than she intended.

Then she held him, because what else **could** she do?

  
  
  
When the day finally came, they instantly knew. But neither of them were ready. Hans started declining very quickly one afternoon. He struggled to breathe and faded in and out of consciousness. It would not be too long now.

Sylvia stayed in bed with him, gently holding him in her arms.

“Hey…I need you to stay with me just a little while longer, all right?” She pleaded.

Hans nodded almost imperceptibly. She could tell how difficult this was for him.

“Are you in pain?” she asked, stroking his damp hair.

“No.” he whispered, his voice barely audible.

“Good. That’s great…” Sylvia exhaled deeply and managed to blink back tears.

“I’m sure you thought I had some grand speech prepared for this _momentous occasion_ …” Hans teased her. “But as that wonderful old American saying goes…The joke’s on you!” he smiled, but it quickly turned into a grimace. He broke into a coughing fit.

“Water?” Sylvia asked, eyeing the glass and pitcher on the nightstand.

“Please.”

She poured Hans a glass, supporting his head while he drank. “Don’t talk so much, you’ll wear yourself out…”

When Hans was done drinking, he lay back against the pillows, his hands clasped on his chest. “I understand. I’m trying to save my strength, as it were. But, if you’ll allow me, I have a few things I need to say.”

“Of course.”

Hans reached up to stroke her cheek. He said, in the most adoring, reverent way: “Without you, Sylvia, my life would have taken a very different path. You opened my eyes. You showed me a way out. And for that, I will be forever grateful.”

Sylvia kissed his lips. “Yeah, you weren’t exactly who **or** what I thought you were.” She smiled at him, but her sad eyes betrayed her.

“Thank you, for these thirty-five years. My life with you has been…Beyond my wildest dreams. It’s certainly more than I deserve. Thank you for loving me, in spite of what I’ve done…” Hans’ breathing had become more shallow, and he closed his eyes to rest for a few minutes.

Sylvia hesitated, then asked: “If…If there really is something afterwards, say hi to Bunny and Donny for me, would you?”

Hans opened his eyes and gave her a tired smile. “If I see them, I’ll give them your regards.”

Sylvia brought Hans’ hand to her lips and kissed his fingers. “I love you.” She gasped, feeling the tears start to stream down her face.

“I love you too, angel. Forever.” He said, without hesitation.

They looked into each other’s eyes for the longest time. For just a moment, Sylvia wished time would stop. She would have been happy to live in that moment forever.

“I’m scared.” She said, for what felt like the thousandth time.

“I know. I know…So am I.”

There was a long and heavy silence between them.

Then, Hans gripped her hand and squeezed it tightly. He told her: “My brave girl…You can do this, I know you can…I’ll always be with you. I promise…” his eyes slowly closed. His chest heaved, and he took one last shaky breath.

He died in her arms. Sylvia double-checked, triple-checked: no faint heartbeat, no thready pulse. He really was gone.

She couldn’t take it anymore. It was too much. She ran from the bedroom, out of the house. She knew she couldn’t go back to their room. Couldn’t face the sight of her husband, cold and motionless on the bed. She went out to the garden and cried for what felt like hours, on and off. Sylvia felt shattered. Eviscerated. Cut loose from her moorings. There were no words to describe this. She cried until her eyes stung and her throat was raw. Then, finally, she pulled herself together, and called Moira- their hospice nurse- to let her know what happened.

It didn’t take Moira long to arrive. She went up to their room and pronounced Hans dead. Confirming what Sylvia already knew.

“Yeah, he’s gone. I am **so,** so, sorry…I know nothing can really prepare you for this...”

Sylvia said nothing. She could have been a thousand miles away; she was so numb. She didn’t want anyone’s pity. But she didn’t want to take her emotions out on Moira, either. She was great, and had been such a big help to them. She was unconventional, a pale scrap of a girl with short, dark, hair.

Moira said nothing as she bathed Hans’ body, while Sylvia watched. As much as she wanted to, she couldn’t bring herself to touch him. He had already grown cold. Once the body was clean, Sylvia handed her a suit to dress it in. Hans would have wanted to look nice, even after death, at least she knew that much.

When the coroner’s van came, Sylvia stood in the background, watching as her husband’s body was placed on a stretcher and covered with a white sheet. She wanted to cry so badly, but the tears wouldn’t come. Then, finally, everyone left, and she was alone. For the first time in thirty-five years. Alone with her pain.

She stayed outside, in the garden. She collapsed into a nearby iron chair and wept, clutching her face in her hands. She felt completely lost. There were a million people to talk to, calls to make, and things to be done, but she was just too exhausted to do them. How would she ever go on without Hans? It seemed impossible. They’d discussed it countless times, but it was nothing compared to the reality.

 _I can’t believe I have a funeral to plan._ She thought numbly. She could plan tonight’s dinner, but that was about it. She looked up at the sky, the colors changing with the sunset. It was difficult to imagine Hans was there- or anywhere, really.

Neither of them had been religious. If they **had** been, well, that would have presented its own set of issues. Would they have gone to separate afterlives? There was nothing crueler than the idea of being separated after death.

“I miss you.” She thought aloud.

 _I’ll tell your story._ Sylvia told herself. That was the promise she made to him. First she just had to survive this funeral. After that, she would gladly jump in with both feet. At least it gave her something to do.

_Tell **our** story, angel. It’s as much yours as it is mine. _She heard Hans’ voice in her head, gently correcting her. Of course, it was just a figment of her imagination, though part of her wished it wasn’t.

 _Our_ story. She had never really thought of it that way. That was the one thing she could hold onto, with everything falling apart. She would get their story out there. It was the best thing she could do to honor Hans’ memory.

It was finally released in the fall of 1980. It was entitled: _Hans Landa: From SS Mastermind to National Hero._ Sylvia kept a hardcover copy in their library at home. Every so often, she would take it from the bookcase and skim through it. The sum of her husband’s life was between the covers, from his childhood in Vienna to his death from cancer. Reading it was almost like hearing his voice again. Sometimes she read it at night, sitting on _his_ side of the bed, because she still couldn’t get used to it being empty.

The nights were always the hardest. It had been a year, she had carried out Hans’ last wish, and she still felt dead inside. Maybe she always would. Again, she found herself thinking: _I miss you._

_Why do I still feel like this? I did everything right…_

She still kept in touch with Moira, and once in a while they went out for coffee together. She always had some funny story about Hans that made Sylvia laugh or smile. If only for a moment. She’d even taken Hans’ advice and started seeing a psychiatrist. But even now, her pain was still just as raw. Hans had died at home, in her arms. He was free from the disease that caused him so much pain. But none of these things brought Sylvia comfort. Living without him was the hardest thing she had ever done. Yes, perhaps even harder than dismantling the Third Reich.

These thoughts continued to torture Sylvia, and she got very little sleep that night. The next morning, a Saturday, she drove out to the cemetery to visit Hans’ grave. Maybe, just maybe, that would give her some closure. It was gray and overcast, as so many autumn days were. Cold, too- but at least her coat kept away the chill. Sylvia walked slowly down the stone path, among the graves, clutching a bouquet of red roses.

The brown grass was littered with leaves that crunched under her feet. Most of the trees were bare. Autumn was here in full force. She noticed some plots that were less well-cared for: names had faded away, and weeds sprung up around the weathered tombstones.

Then, finally, she reached the small plot she and Hans had chosen. His grave was a simple affair made of granite. It read:

HANS LANDA

1894 – 1979

BELOVED HUSBAND AND FATHER

And just below…

HIS WIFE, SYLVIA

1914 –

Someday she, too, would be buried here. Not that she was in any hurry. Sylvia gently laid the bouquet on the ground in front of the headstone. A sudden pain shot through her knees. _Goddamnit, not now…_ The last thing she needed was a reminder of her age, least of all here.

Her hair was gray, and she didn’t bother to dye it. Her joints ached, and her skin was more wrinkled than she felt comfortable with. She was really starting to feel like an old woman now. Of course, Hans wouldn’t have cared. He still thought she was the sexiest, most attractive woman on earth. Why did she feel like she’d aged so much in only a year?

“I can’t believe it’s been a year.” She said, to no one in particular. “So much has happened, and sometimes I feel like you died yesterday. Between Miri, the grandkids, and the book, I’m just exhausted on all fronts.” She threw up her hands. “I _am_ seeing a psychiatrist, like you wanted me to. But I don’t think I’m getting better. I’m not seeing a difference yet…”

Sylvia looked around to make sure there was no one to overhear. Then, she continued: “I feel crazy talking to you, Hans. Maybe I’ve finally lost it. I feel like any minute now the men in the white coats will come take me away.” She laughed, and it was genuine.

“Just so you know, Moira is still your biggest fan. I still see her every once in a while, and it’s nice catching up with her. It’s a distraction, at least. I think you’d be very happy with the book. I keep a copy at home, and I’m always reading it. It feels really strange seeing it in bookstores. I don’t think I’ll ever get over that. I just wish you were here to celebrate with me, everything feels kind of pointless otherwise…” she kicked a brittle leaf away.

“I don’t know what I’m going to do. Everything still feels so overwhelming. When I get out of bed in the morning I feel like I’m running on autopilot. I don’t know _what_ I was expecting, to be honest. I guess I thought that a year later it wouldn’t be so bad. But clearly, I was wrong!” Sylvia sighed heavily.

“I feel so silly asking this. I don’t even really believe in this sort of thing. But Hans, if you’re out there, if you’re listening, I want you to tell me it’s okay. That I can move forward. Because I miss you so fucking much and it’s killing me!”

She looked up at the moody gray sky, at the bare trees surrounding her. Almost as though expecting an answer. _Why the hell not?_ But there was nothing. Of course there was nothing.

“Oh, fuck it. I guess you’re not home.” She muttered under her breath.

She went back to her waiting car and drove home, feeling a bit more sullen than an adult her age probably should have. _Of course I wasn’t going to get an answer. What was I thinking? Hans is **DEAD**! _She thought on the way home. The more she thought about it, the more foolish and embarrassed she felt.

The rest of the day was slow and uneventful. That night, she showered, changed into her pajamas, and went to bed. But when she picked up Hans’ book from the nightstand, she noticed something very strange: It had been left open at a different place than where she left off.

_…Let me say that I am incredibly grateful to my wife, Sylvia. If not for her, I likely would have been condemned as a war criminal at Nuremberg. Because of her, my life has taken an entirely different trajectory. I make no excuses for my actions, but at least allow me to explain them. I fell in with the nazis because they were, as they say, the only game in town. And for a long time, it paid off. I was all too happy to ignore the countless human lives it took to get me where I was. I was never taken in by Himmler’s anti-semitic tirades, mind you. I had no special hatred for the Jews. They had done nothing to me whatsoever. It’s ironic, isn’t it?_

_They were merely easy prey. Enemies of the state. Names to be crossed off a list. When Sylvia came into my life, she complicated everything. I’ve never met a complication I couldn’t resolve, but she was the exception! I fell for her. She captivated me with her wildness. It’s not exactly every day a Jewish-American agent falls into an SS officer’s lap. I loved her madly, and yet she was a Jew. She was a_ person _, not another quarry, or a box to be checked. It was impossible for me to compartmentalize, and soon I knew I would have to make some very difficult decisions._

_I’m not so sure I deserve my happy, comfortable life in America. I’ve done things I know I can never atone for. But somehow, Sylvia loves me regardless. I owe so much of my success to her. Although this is the story of my life, it is, in so many ways, her story as well. Thank you, Sylvia, for staying beside me through everything. You are everything I ever dreamed of and more. You inspire me to continue writing, even on days I feel too weak to do much of anything._

Sylvia just stared in astonishment. It was hard not to feel a little taken aback. There had to be a natural explanation for this, though. Of course there was. No need to go jumping to ridiculous conclusions. Still, it did make her feel the slightest bit better.

“Hans, was that you, or am I just losing my mind?” Sylvia asked, but her tone was light. Almost playful. “If it was, then thank you. I needed to hear that…” she turned back to where she left off and continued reading.

She was still thinking about it later, as she tried to sleep. Although she didn’t believe in heaven or any sort of afterlife, it comforted her to think Hans was watching over her, somehow. She remembered his last words: “I’ll always be with you, I promise.” Until today, she’d seen nothing to actually suggest that was true. But she didn’t want to get **too** hopeful. It was likely this was a one-time thing, or just a coincidence.

Part of her felt ridiculous for even thinking this. But part of her desperately wanted to believe it. _I miss you, Hans. I think about you constantly. I still don’t know how to live without you! I hope you’re still out there, and that you still love me. I actually **felt** something today, for the first time in God knows how long…_

Maybe now, finally, things would start to get better. Maybe there were better days ahead.

Sylvia remembered Hans on the good days and the bad days. When she went out walking, alone, with only her shadow behind her. And perhaps most importantly, she remembered him when the sun shone after it rained.


	2. That's Life

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Do you know what the great tragedy of my life is, angel? Not that I was born a monster, but that I chose to become one.”

Sylvia hadn’t been gone long. Five minutes at the most. She’d thrown on a robe and gone downstairs to get a snack. She climbed the stairs to find Hans lying on the landing at an odd angle, unconscious. Or possibly dead.

“Hans!” she screamed, dropping beside him.

 _Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God…_ This was the only thought running through her head. She lifted his wrist to find a weak but steady pulse there. The rise and fall of his chest was so subtle she hadn’t even noticed it.

She gently inspected his body for any injuries but found none. Not even bruises. Relief flooded through her. A fall was nothing for a young, healthy, person, but for a man Hans’ age, it could be dangerous. Even deadly. Sylvia wondered what her husband was doing out of bed in the first place. She had questions. Very pressing questions. She would have to wait for Hans to wake up before she got answers. But she was prepared to wait.

Sylvia was not sure how long she sat there. Minutes? Hours? It was hard to keep track of time without a clock. Either way, she was relieved when Hans finally opened his eyes. They looked bleary and unfocused at first, but soon became clear again.

“Sylvia?” he rasped.

Hans slowly sat up. Adjusted his crooked nasal prongs. He was looking at her intently now.

“Yeah, that’s me…” Sylvia sighed. She couldn’t tamp down her festering annoyance, couldn’t control it. “Hans, what were you _thinking?!_ You scared the shit out of me!” She hissed. The words just exploded out of her, with no regard for his illness. But how was she _supposed_ to feel when she found her husband passed out on the floor in the middle of the night?

Hans exhaled. His breathing was still a bit erratic, like someone who’d been running for hours. “I’m terribly sorry, angel. I didn’t mean to frighten you. Really, I can explain…”

“Can you?” Sylvia deadpanned, her arms tightly crossed.

Hans gave her the most pleading look in his repertoire. He felt like a kicked dog. “I know you must be rather angry with me, and I suppose you have a right to be. I _know_ I’m not supposed to be out of bed. In fact, I was just as shocked as you were when I awoke to find myself here…”

Sylvia frowned. “You were sleepwalking?” This was news to her.

Hans winced. He looked a little frustrated- trying and failing to put his thoughts into words. “No, no, not quite…How can I explain it? I suppose you _could_ call it sleepwalking, but it was more of a _vision._ A hallucination.” He gestured around at the room. “In my mind, I was somewhere else entirely.”

Sylvia leaned forward, listening. “What did you see, then?”

Hans hesitated. “You’ll think I’ve gone mad. Or that I’m not all there.” He tapped his forehead.

She touched his shoulder. “Hans, we’ve all had weird dreams at one point or another. I won’t think you’re crazy…”

“I was in an endless black room. I kept calling your name, but you didn’t answer. I felt so very alone, and frightened. I hope, for both of our sake, that that isn’t what death is like. And then everything shifted. I saw…I saw things you wouldn’t possibly believe. Events that that happened before I was born. Things to come. I was watching all of this, but I felt…Removed from it, somehow. Like I no longer had a physical body. I saw the passage of time, the changing seasons. It was so beautiful it moved me to tears. At least, it would have, if I could actually cry. Perhaps _that_ is what death is. Becoming part of everything.”

Sylvia just listened. Taking it all in. What Hans was saying was very strange, but it was also beautiful. It even made a lot of sense. She found it hard not to cry.

“That’s beautiful.” She whispered, her voice breaking. She swallowed hard and blinked back tears. “Actually, I really like the sound of that.” Sylvia briefly rested her head on his shoulder.

Hans lovingly ran a hand through her hair. He seemed thoughtful, contemplative.

“As do I. You know I’ve never believed in any sort of afterlife, but that…That didn’t seem quite so terrible. I think it sounds rather peaceful. But I won’t know until my time here is over.”

“Ain’t that the truth?” Sylvia murmured. She held out her hand to him. “Come on, let’s get you back to bed…”

Hans took it and stood shakily, leaning heavily on her. On his good days, he could walk a bit, and on his bad days, he was bedridden. His illness was so damn unpredictable. The cancer had spread to his spine (and his other lung), leaving him with muscle weakness, and a recurring pins and needles sensation in his legs.

 _Goddamnit, cancer, haven’t you taken enough from us?_ Sylvia thought bitterly.

With some difficulty, they made it back to the bedroom together. Sylvia got Hans settled in bed. Seeing his pajamas were soaked with sweat, she helped him change into clean clothes. Then, she arranged the pillows so he could sit comfortably.

“Sylvia…I think it’s about time for my medication.” Hans said, clearing his throat.

“Shit. You’re right.”

She slid open the nightstand drawer, pulled out the syringe, and filled it with morphine. She rubbed down Hans’ arm with an alcohol swab and carefully slid the needle in. He didn’t even flinch- by now, she was a pro at this stuff. It would take some time for the drug to take effect. It wasn’t instant like in TV and movies.

It broke Sylvia to see Hans lying there, consumed by pain. Gasping for breath even with the oxygen.

“I wish I could take your pain away.” She said, resting a hand over his.

Hans shook his head vehemently. His face was pain-wracked. His whole body trembled as he spoke:

“It’s nothing less than what I deserve. It’s far more than my victims got! Please, angel, you’re a smart girl. Take off your rose-colored glasses for just a moment. A slow and painful death is as fitting an end for me as any. I snuffed out their lives as one blows out a candle. It’s something I did without even thinking. I was blinded in my pursuit of power and glory. I’m fortunate I have you to care for me and make my last days bearable. But the truth is, I don’t deserve it! I never did and I never will. I don’t deserve any of this…”

Hans’ voice was low and icy. Sylvia couldn’t even remember the last time she heard him speak like this. It frightened her, even though she knew he was right.

“I almost wish there was a hell because I belong there!” Hans exclaimed, his chest heaving.

Sylvia swallowed the growing lump in her throat. “I know this won’t mean much, but what about everything you’ve done since then? It doesn’t erase what you did, but it’s still got to count for something. Right?” she tried in vain to console him.

“Tell that to the dead!” Hans snapped. He just looked at her with pure despair and hopelessness.

Hans slumped back against the pillows, fighting to keep his eyes open. His outburst had taken all his strength.

He felt like his chest was being crushed, and there was a constant ache in his spine. He hated the disease that made him feel like he was slowly drowning on land. The disease that slowly rotted him from the inside out, leaving him with excruciating pain and a failing body. But oh, God, he deserved it. There couldn’t have been a more fitting end for him.

There was a silence between them that seemed to last forever. The only sound was the rain beating against the roof, and the thunder rumbling in the distance.

“I love you.” Sylvia whispered, kissing him on the lips. There wasn’t much she could offer him, but at least it was something.

Hans smiled sadly at her. “Of course you do. It takes a truly remarkable girl to love a monster…”

Despite himself, he leaned in to kiss her on the mouth. Kissed her hard. There was aggression and intensity in it. A terrible longing. Mouth on mouth, a tangling of tongues. Sylvia gave a weak little moan. It sounded adorable, and Hans was proud he could still make her respond like this.

They were both a little breathless afterwards, but in a good way.

“You _asshole._ ” Sylvia growled, but her expression was playful. “What was that for?”

“To show you that monsters are capable of love, and even being sensual.” He said softly, lacing his fingers with hers. “Do you know what the great tragedy of my life is, angel? Not that I was born a monster, but that I chose to become one.”

She couldn’t refute that. It was the truth. So she just listened in silence. The look on her face seemed to say: _I know._

For a while, they didn’t speak. Then, the thunder grew louder, and there was a brief flash of lightning. Sylvia shivered and clung to Hans. “I’m not really a fan of thunderstorms.” She admitted.

“Is that so? I’ve always rather liked them.” He dryly remarked.

Hans leaned forward a little, and their noses touched. Sylvia always thought he had the most striking eyes. Sometimes they looked brown and other times they seemed green, depending on the lighting. 

Sylvia was grateful for the levity. For a soft and gentle moment amid all this pain.

There was something she needed to say, and she felt like there was no better time than now: “Hans, you really scared me back there. I thought I lost you.” Sylvia whispered.

“No, but you will. As they say, that’s life.” Hans reminded her. He looked so weary of everything. “Sylvia, I’m trying to hang on, but it’s becoming more and more difficult.”

In the background, the storm had finally settled down. The rain tapped softly against the window, and it was almost relaxing. They were cuddled up against each other now.

“You don’t have to stay for me. You know that.” Sylvia said without hesitation. Those were some of the most painful words she had ever said, but she had to say them.

Hans was nothing if not a fighter. And too damn stubborn for his own good. Even when it was almost over, and they had no hope.

“I don’t _have_ to, no. I **want** to. There’s a considerable difference…” Hans quipped. He kept his voice light, but he couldn’t hide the sadness in it.

They fell asleep clinging to each other, his arms around her waist. They needed each other now more than ever.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not a religious person so, no, I don't believe in an afterlife. While I don't think there's anything after death, I still find the whole idea of some kind of peaceful existence very comforting. Just my personal opinion!
> 
> And remember folks: that's life! After watching Joker, I can only think about That's Life in a depressing/ironic sense, so I figured it would be the perfect song for this chapter title.


	3. Funeral Blues

The morning of the funeral, Sylvia woke up filled with dread. This whole thing was real. It wasn’t some awful nightmare she would wake up from and laugh about later. It was real and it was permanent. The past few days she had more or less been living in a fog, and then the realization hit her all over again. For a long time she just lay there, staring up at the smoke-stained ceiling. Part of her wanted to just lay in bed and sleep all morning, but of course, she couldn’t. Eventually, she dragged herself out of bed and began rummaging through the closet for something to wear.

She was **not** wearing black. No way in hell. Not on a scorching August day. She settled on a navy polka dot wrap dress made of some gauzy material. That would do nicely. It felt like hours before she was finally satisfied with her hair and makeup. She had to look presentable for the funeral and **not** like a total wreck. That was extremely important. No one needed to see those dark circles under her eyes.

Sylvia had to force herself to eat before leaving the house. She had very little appetite these days. She drank several cups of coffee, to give her the energy she badly needed. Then, finally, she got in the car and made the short drive to the funeral home. It was not a dark, rainy, day. In fact, it was very sunny out. She had no idea if that was a good thing or a bad thing.

Sylvia was all nerves as she stood outside. Her stomach clenched anxiously, and her legs almost buckled. She closed her eyes, exhaled. _Come on, you can do this…You just have to survive this, and then it’s all over…_ She told herself. She steeled herself and went inside.

It was not dreary, like something from a Victorian novel. In fact, the lobby looked like someone’s living room. She continued straight ahead to the chapel. The chapel, too, was very nice. Modestly-decorated, no religious symbols anywhere. In addition to the wooden pews, several rows of folding chairs had been provided for guests to sit. For now, though, it was empty except for a few people. It was eerily silent, too.

A single microphone had been set up at the front of the room. The coffin was at the very back, against the wall. It was black and heavy and heaped with flowers. Sylvia made a beeline for it. She almost broke into a run. When she reached it, the sweet, cloying, smell was almost overpowering. It made her feel a little dizzy. _God, I feel like I’m at a florist’s._ She thought.

Sylvia collapsed beside it, her breath coming in gasps. She leaned against the smooth wood, her head resting against the casket spray. She was so relieved she’d opted for a closed casket funeral.

She remembered going to see Hans’ body after it was embalmed. The memory was still fresh and shocking in her mind. The mortician had done a good job, and perhaps that was the problem. In the last months of his life, Sylvia had grown used to seeing Hans gaunt and frail, but very much alive. The mortician had tried to make him look healthy, like he was only sleeping, but there was something a bit _off_ about it. It was unnerving. No live person looked like that. She had physically recoiled at the sight. She definitely didn’t want anyone gawking at Hans’ corpse. The idea was just too much.

Sylvia glanced at the old photograph of Hans, mounted on an easel. _I don’t know if I can do this._ She thought.

She was trembling a little as she walked to the front row pew and sat down. Right beside the microphone. She patiently waited as more and more people began to arrive, filling the pews and folding chairs. Even after the chapel was mostly-occupied, Sylvia waited a few more minutes in case of stragglers. Just stalling for time.

Then, about ten minutes after the funeral officially started, she stepped in front of the microphone. She scanned the crowd for familiar faces. Miri. Alain and Smithson. Aldo. Bridget, as glamorous as ever. Relatives, friends, and neighbors.

“Oh, wow. It looks like the gang’s all here!” she began, forcing on a smile. “I am so, so, thrilled that each and every one of you could be here today. Today we come together, not in sorrow, but to reminiscence and celebrate Hans’ life. I know this might sound crazy, but he wouldn’t want us to be sad. This was something he and I had _many_ discussions about, believe me! He left behind a pretty detailed plan for his funeral, so don’t shoot me, I’m just the messenger. How do I even begin to describe Hans? I would describe him as extraordinary, the love of my life, while others would just call him batshit crazy. That’s just the kind of person he was. He was intelligent, charming, well-spoken, and always had an opinion on anything and everything.

He was, in so many ways, a contradiction. When I first met Hans, we were enemies. I was an American SOE operative- a _Jewish_ one at that- and he was an SS officer. I was frightened out of my mind. I thought for sure I was going to die. But I didn’t, and there were more twists and turns than I even thought possible. And it all culminated with us blowing up the nazi high command and hitching a ride back to America. I know that sounds absolutely insane, but it’s all true!

You know, Hans _loved_ living in America, but I don’t think he ever truly felt comfortable here. If that makes any sense. He felt like he didn’t deserve happiness after causing the deaths of so many men, women, and children; and as harsh as this sounds, I agree. It was something he spent the rest of his life trying to come to terms with.

As some of you may remember, Hans had lung cancer eight years ago. But it was treated successfully, and we got eight amazing years we wouldn’t have had otherwise. I think I’ll always be grateful for that. When the cancer came back, we had to make some very hard choices. I didn’t want Hans to die, but I didn’t want him to stay alive for my own sake either. His dignity was extremely important to him, and I didn’t want to violate that. Our only real option was to do hospice, palliative care, and keep Hans comfortable until he died. I’m so glad we did. We met Moira- you’re in the audience somewhere- and she was a godsend. I don’t think either of us were prepared to like her as much as we did.

When Moira first came to our house to meet us, she was scared half to death. I’m not exaggerating. She was so shy, and she was _painstakingly_ polite. She shook our hands and addressed as Mr. and Mrs. Landa at all times. Of course it was Hans who tried breaking the ice a little and got her talking. The first thing she told us was, her favorite bands were Pink Floyd and Black Sabbath, and her favorite movie was the Texas Chainsaw Massacre. Hans and I, we just stared at each other for a second. That’s when we knew this girl had to work for us! And Hans didn’t even like rock, let alone whatever the _hell_ Black Sabbath is. So thank you, Moira, for helping us through the most difficult time of our life. I am grateful beyond words.

Part of me still can’t believe Hans is gone. It all happened very quickly. He was fine one morning, and that same afternoon he passed away in my arms. But I’m so glad he isn’t suffering anymore. The cancer had spread to his spine, and it was causing him so much pain. It was really difficult seeing him suffer like that. But you know Hans, always the stoic. He felt like he _deserved_ all his pain, and he was very adamant about that. Who was I to tell him otherwise?

Hans and I had thirty-five long years together. Thirty-five years I will never forget, for as long as I live. He was an extraordinary man, and I was privileged to spend my life with him. We’ll all be a little worse off now that he’s gone.

Thank you, everyone, for sitting through my speech. You’re real troopers, all of you. If anyone would like to come forward and share a memory about Hans, please, go right ahead. You have the floor. Cheers!”

Sylvia felt physically relieved as she settled back into her seat. She didn’t know how on earth she pulled that off. She was running on pure adrenaline and caffeine alone. Merely talking about Hans was not painful. In fact, it came naturally to her. She didn’t have anything written up this morning, but somehow she was able to improvise an entire eulogy. And it _didn’t_ sound totally awful! But the worst part of all was, Hans would have been so proud of her.

Just after she had sat down, Stayin’ Alive began playing on the speakers. A number of people burst out laughing, and even Sylvia couldn’t keep from cracking a smile.

She still vividly remembered that exchange. When Hans told her that, she had just stared at him like he was insane.

“…Really, Hans? The _Bee Gees?_ ” Disco was about the last genre she had expected him to choose.

And Hans had just laughed. “I’m disappointed in you. Don’t you understand, angel? It’s _subversive!_ It’s the last thing anyone will expect! I don’t want this to be a dismal, overly-serious affair, with nauseating amounts of tears. Rather, I want people to come together to remember me. Preferably positively, but I’ll take what I can get. Try to keep the mood light, if you can.”

Time passed in a blur. People came and went, sharing their own stories about Hans. Most of these anecdotes ran towards the lighthearted, and even snarky. Some were brief, while others seemed to go on forever. Moira went last.

She looked a lot like Liza Minelli, but less glamorous and more girl-next-door. She was thirty. She wore an oversized black Dark Side of the Moon t-shirt, and looked much younger than Sylvia ever had at that age. Then again, Moira wasn’t an international spy constantly risking her life.

For a moment, she just stared out at the audience with a wide-eyed, deer-in-the-headlights expression. Then, she cleared her throat and slowly began to speak: “So, uh, hi everyone. My name is Moira Harrison, I was Hans’ nurse. To be honest, I don’t even know if I should be here. I only knew Hans for a few months, not _decades._ ” She looked around nervously. “But what the hell? I’ll give it my best shot. Sylvia’s description of me, I’m sorry to say, was accurate. I was so nervous and had no idea what to expect. But she and her husband were nothing but friendly and welcoming to me. I got to know them both very well. We watched a lot of bad horror movies, had many interesting conversations, and played many, many, intense games of schnapsen. I only won once or twice, and that was because Hans felt sorry for me and let me win. He always denied it though. I consider myself lucky to have known Hans and Sylvia, if only for a short time. It was an honor to support them in this difficult time, and I’m glad I was given a chance to speak today. Thank you.”

She smiled politely and returned to her seat.

Now that that was done with, Sylvia returned to the microphone and recited Funeral Blues, by W.H. Auden:

He was my North, my South, my East and West

My working week, and my Sunday rest

My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song

I thought that love would last forever: I was wrong.

Hans had not left behind any instructions about a reading. In fact, he told Sylvia she could read whatever she wanted. This seemed appropriate. In fact, it perfectly summed up her feelings. Without his love, she was adrift and aching. She didn’t know how to define herself without him. For over thirty years they functioned almost as a unit, and now she was severed. Cut loose. At least she had been able to prepare for it, but that didn’t make it any better.

After the reading, everyone went to a nearby restaurant for the luncheon. There was a lot of reminiscing about Hans. Once again, Sylvia had to force herself to eat. She had no desire to eat anything, and she felt a little nauseous.

A small group went to the cemetery for the burial: just Sylvia, Miri, Alain, and Smithson. Sylvia and Miri stood, watching, as the coffin was slowly lowered into the ground. Sylvia couldn’t help it: she held her daughter protectively, let her cry on her shoulder. Miri wasn’t so little anymore, but in Sylvia’s eyes, she would always be that broken little girl who was frightened of everything. Together, they threw roses onto the coffin, now lying at the bottom of the grave.

When the burial was over and the time came to leave, Sylvia refused.

“Mom, are you **sure** you’re all right?” Miri asked, shooting her mother a concerned look.

Sylvia tried to smile, but it didn’t reach her eyes. “I’m fine. I just need to spend some time alone with your father. We’ll catch up later…”

Miri still looked worried, but said nothing more. And Sylvia was left alone. She lingered at the gravesite, under a perfect blue sky that never seemed to darken. She just stared at the small, square, patch of ground. The marker wouldn’t be ready for a few weeks, and until then it just looked strange.

She didn’t speak. She had no words, they had all gone out of her. Her grief, her anguish, was almost a physical weight. She collapsed to the ground, sobbing, grateful there was no one around to see her lose herself like this.

  
Finally, Sylvia left the cemetery, and went home to spend a few hours with Miri, Alain, and Smithson. It was good to just spend time together as a family. There was nothing she needed more right now. _Anything_ to keep her mind off her terrible loss. They all left after dinner, to go back to their own lives. 

She knew then what she had to do. _And now,_ she thought, _I am going to get completely plastered in the privacy of my own home._ And that’s exactly what she did.  
  
  
  


When Sylvia awoke, it was evening, and the sun had just set. She had a headache that threatened to split her skull in two. The pain was a white lightning bolt that blocked out everything else. She also felt nauseous, sick to her stomach. The pain was so overpowering, it took a few minutes for her to piece everything together. It was the night of the funeral. After the funeral, Alain, Smithson, and Miri came over for dinner. Sylvia didn’t feel like much of a hostess, but they had all been good sports about it. Then, almost as soon as they left, she had gotten disgustingly drunk.

Feeling bile burning at the back of her throat, Sylvia dragged herself to the bathroom to be sick. She hunched over the toilet and vomited until her stomach was empty. She felt a little more human once she drank some water to soothe her raw, sour, throat. A tiny step, but a positive one. She stared down at her dress. _Did I really sleep in this?_ She thought disdainfully. It was one of the best dresses she owned, and now it was badly creased and rumpled. Oh, well. She would deal with that later. She tossed it in the hamper and changed into her pajamas.

Almost in a trance, Sylvia left the bathroom and walked down the stairs, collapsing in a heap at the bottom. She closed her eyes and tried to remember what it felt like. Hans’ arms around her waist. His hand tangled in her hair. His lips on hers. It was all so fresh and real she could almost _feel_ it. But memories didn’t last forever. They faded with time. Someday, it would get harder and harder to remember his touch. His voice. All the little things he said that drove her crazy. Sylvia dreaded that day. She hoped it would never come.

Then Sylvia began to cry. She felt almost childish for crying, but she knew she had to let it out. Especially after being strong and stoic all day. She hadn’t shed a single tear at the funeral. That had been exhausting. But she knew if she let herself cry, she wouldn’t be able to stop, and then she wouldn’t be able to eulogize Hans. And no one, no one, could tell their story better than she could.

Now she could finally cry, and it was such a release. She let the tears stream down her cheeks, stinging and burning her skin. She let out a snuffling, broken, moan. She cried because she needed Hans, but he’d gone to a place she could never follow. Sylvia sniffled. Now she had a terrible runny nose. Wonderful. She got up and hunted around for a tissue to blow her nose. Feeling slightly better now- but only physically- she returned to her place at the bottom of the stairs.

She thought about the film she recently saw. A few days after Hans died, Sylvia went to see that new movie, Apocalypse Now. It was the most disturbing movie she had ever seen. It had reached her in some dark, primal, place. Forced its way into her mind and under her skin. Hans would have loved it, she was certain. It was about the horror and the futility of war. Or maybe, because of his own experiences, he would have found it too painful to watch. Too close to home. That was also a possibility. It was so hard to think. Hard to focus. Nothing made sense anymore. Was _this_ how Willard felt when he had his breakdown in the hotel room?

Very slowly- she was still a bit unsteady on her feet- Sylvia entered the living room, turned on the light, and sat down on the couch. There it was, sitting on the mantle. Taken last December, it was the last picture of her and Hans before he got sick. Sylvia took it off the mantle to look at it. It was an ordinary photo. They were a well-dressed older couple, smiling calmly for the camera. They had no idea what was about to befall them. Just six months later, everything would fall apart.

In six months, Hans went from the handsome, dignified, older man in the picture to thin, wasted, and struggling for breath. He didn’t want to be remembered that way. Sylvia, in deference to that, took very few pictures of him during his illness. They were tucked away on the very last page of their last album. They unleashed such a storm of emotions in her, she couldn’t look at them. Maybe she never would.

She sat there on the couch, alone with her thoughts, and her despair. _I miss you I miss you I miss you._ The words were like a mantra in her mind.

“What am I supposed to do with myself now that you’re gone?” She mumbled, thinking aloud.

Yes, of course, there was Hans’ book. She would throw herself into that when she had the strength and the energy to do so. But right now, she had neither of those things. She almost felt like she was drowning. Or she had lost a part of herself. The silence was deafening. The only sound was her hard, gasping, breathing. After a while, Sylvia couldn’t take it anymore. She was exhausted and needed to get some rest, or she would still feel like shit in the morning. She slowly climbed the stairs and went up to the bedroom.

In the bedroom, she walked over to the dresser, pulled open the top drawer. There were Hans’ clothes, untouched and neatly-folded, almost like he might need them again someday. Sylvia hesitated. She wasn’t crazy about touching his clothes. She wanted to keep them just the way they were for as long as possible. But this…This qualified as an emergency, didn’t it?

She took out one of his shirts and put it on over her pajama shirt. On a summer night like this, she would sweat her ass off, but she didn’t even care. It still _smelled_ like him. In that moment, there was nothing she needed more. She collapsed into bed and was asleep within minutes, clinging to that small bit of Hans like a lifeline.


	4. Far From The Madding Crowd

The morning after Hans died, Sylvia overslept. This was _very_ new to her. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d had that luxury. Before, she had liked to get up early, to make her and Hans’ breakfast, and give him his morphine injection. She had done that only yesterday. Yesterday now seemed like a lifetime ago.

She wandered off to the bathroom to brush her teeth, but there was no real urgency in it. She felt like she was sleepwalking, living in a dream, and everything was just optional. She had to force herself to do anything. She had spent most of last night on the phone with the county coroner’s office. Making arrangements to transfer the body to the funeral home. At least she didn’t have to go there in person.

Sylvia hated the gaunt, haggard, face staring back at her in the mirror. She didn’t exactly look like a picture of health herself. She took her time brushing her teeth and brushing the tangles out of her hair. There was a sour, metallic, taste in her mouth that never fully went away. After she was done in the bathroom, Sylvia went back to bed and collapsed on Hans’ side for a while. She could almost pretend he had just gone away somewhere. That any minute he would walk through the door, and everything would be all right…Of course, it was a fantasy. But for a moment, she could almost believe it.

She closed her eyes. She would never forget his face, his smile. The arrogant smirk of his she both loved and hated. Sylvia let herself drift off to sleep. She ached to hold him. She would have given anything to hear his voice again. How could she face this tragedy without Hans? How would she get through it? It seemed impossible.

In the days after the funeral, there was a silence that seemed endless. Getting used to the half-empty house. Getting used to being on her own. Hans’ absence was something she could almost physically feel. Somehow, she endured the funeral with a strength she didn’t even know she had. But in the days and weeks that followed, it just dissipated. Pathetic.

At least she wouldn’t have to cook for a while- her fridge was now overstuffed. That was a small consolation. But Sylvia had little else to be happy about. In fact, she had **nothing** to be happy about. _I’m glad you’re not suffering anymore, but I wish you were here with me._ She often found herself thinking. She couldn’t stop thinking about the way Hans died. God, it was something she wouldn’t wish on her worst enemy. He could have died in his sleep. Perhaps from heart disease. That wouldn’t have been pleasant either, but compared to the cancer it didn’t seem quite so bad. It had been agonizing and drawn-out. It was heartbreaking, watching him slowly die and knowing there was nothing she could do about it.

To make matters worse, she felt so… _Complicated_ about the whole situation. There was nothing more upsetting than seeing Hans in pain. Of course she wanted to ease his suffering, do everything she could to make him comfortable. She gently cared for him and never left his side. But part of her felt he deserved it. _He killed dozens of innocent people! Maybe even hundreds. Isn’t it only fair?_ Hans had even said as much. It **was** more than any of his victims got. They were just numbers. Statistics. He had killed them without even a second thought. It was simply a part of his job, something unpleasant that had to be done.

He had been living with that pain for the past thirty-five years. Maybe the cancer was just the mental made physical. It made a twisted sort of sense. It was almost poetic justice. Yes, he had done terrible things. Things he knew he could never atone for no matter what he did. But he was still her husband. She loved him immensely, with all her heart and soul.

Her heart twisted when she saw him struggling to breathe. When the pain was so great he could barely speak.

Once, Hans had told her: “I don’t understand how you can love me, angel. How can you stand it? You’re much too good for me.”

She replied, firmly but gently: “Because I made that choice all those years ago. I loved you then, and I still do. I’m not going anywhere. We chose to walk this path together, and there’s no way in hell I’m leaving you _now._ Not when you need me the most.”

“Thank you for finding it in you. And for loving and caring for me. Do you know what you are, Sylvia? You’re the only light in my darkness.” He whispered, looking at her like she was the only thing in the world that mattered.

She had never forgotten that conversation.

In the weeks and months that followed, Sylvia tried finding ways to cope. She started carrying around at least one picture of Hans in her wallet when she went out. It made her feel a little less alone, and made the pain less intense. At home, physical reminders of him were everywhere: his clothes were still neatly-folded in the dresser, and if she had her way, they would stay there forever. All his books were in the library, untouched. Bottles of his cologne were in a shoebox in a dresser drawer. Sometimes, she would take one out and sniff it. At night, she spent hours going through their photo albums. It was a bandaid, but she was finding ways to fill the void.

Right after the funeral, she had gone to the police station to drop off Hans’ medication, as she was required to do. She was certain she’d gotten rid of all of it. One day, when she was cleaning out the medicine cabinet, she found a bottle of hydromorphone pills hiding at the back of the top shelf. Finding that was like a punch to the gut. The memories flooded back. For a while, she couldn’t do anything else. She just needed to cry and let it all out.

 _And I thought I was doing so well…_ She thought, slumping against the bathroom wall and sliding to the floor.

Summer gave way to fall. The days grew colder and shorter. Dead leaves littered the streets, and the skies were often gray. She could have skipped Halloween this year. It would have been a perfectly valid decision. But in Sylvia’s mind, skipping Halloween was never a choice. She had to carry on without Hans like everything was normal. Even though it wasn’t and probably never would be. The morning of Halloween, she went out to the store and bought those bulk bags of candy. When night fell, she turned her light on and waited for the flood of trick-or-treaters. In addition to the usual ghosts, witches, and mummies, she also saw plenty of kids dressed as Superman, the Star Wars characters, and the Muppets. She complimented the kids on their costumes, dropped handfuls of candy into their plastic jack-o-lanterns. Once they finally stopped coming, Sylvia turned off the light and went to bed.

Grief was doing mundane, domestic, tasks like cooking dinner or vacuuming the living room and asking: “Hans? Hans, are you even listening to me?!” And remembering, of course, Hans was dead. _No fucking shit!_ It was playing solitaire at the kitchen table, while a TV news anchor droned on about the Iran hostage crisis. It was cooking for one instead of two. It was a heavy, suffocating, feeling of loneliness that followed her like a shadow.

Sylvia had never felt so alienated when she heard people talking about their summer. About their trips to the beach and cute little vacation homes. _Yeah, my summer was great! I was inside all day, taking care of my dying husband!_ Of course, she never said that out loud. But it was impossible not to think it. Her grief was something festering and ugly. She suddenly existed in a whole different world from everyone else. A world most people didn’t understand. It was something no one really understood until they lived it.

Sylvia remembered the first time she started reading Hans’ manuscript. It was right after the funeral. She had read bits and pieces before, but not the whole thing. She was overwhelmed in both a good way and a bad way. There was just so much _there,_ it was a lot to process. Then again, any book spanning eighty-five years of someone’s life was not exactly pithy.

The typed manuscript was so heavy. It was like handling a brick made of paper. _I’m going to get muscles from dragging this thing everywhere._ She thought. She set aside a few hours each day to read it. It took her about a week to get through the whole text. Hans had been working on it for over a year before his death, so it was almost finished. There was little she needed to do.

It was strange, reading about their relationship from his perspective. A little jarring. He described it in the most methodical, calculating way: “ _She fancied herself unbreakable. It was almost endearing. Although she **was** tougher than most, I’ll give her that. I could have broken her if I wanted to, but I chose the opposite route instead. I brought her home with me and treated her well. And I waited. Fortunately for her, I am a patient man, and in time, she realized she was not immune to my charms…_”

There were times she found herself rolling her eyes as well. But the book had proven to be a welcome distraction. Even if it sometimes hurt to read.

As time passed, the silence was starting to get to her. When Hans was alive, there had always been _something_ to do. And someone to talk to. She didn’t like thinking of herself as his caregiver. _No, I'm just his goddamn wife._ If their roles were reversed, he would have done the same for her. Hans _despised_ being vulnerable, and she treated him with as much dignity and respect as possible. Caring for him was not an easy job. It was difficult and often stressful. It was a challenging balancing act, for sure, but she had never complained. Instead, she adapted and rolled with the punches. What was she supposed to do with herself now that he was gone? She still didn’t know.

The winter of 1979-1980 was the longest of Sylvia’s life. She felt physically and emotionally distant. There was little going on in her life, and nothing to look forward to. She could travel. Maybe take a vacation. But that was a temporary distraction. Once it was over, she would go back to the status quo. Even thinking about a relationship with someone else repulsed her. She didn’t _want_ to start over again with someone else. At her age, why bother?

But she would still be around for twenty more years. Maybe more, maybe less, but twenty was a good average. _What the **fuck** am I supposed to do with myself for twenty years?_ She thought hopelessly. It seemed like an impossibly long time.

She couldn’t believe it was a new decade already. How was that possible? _New decade, new me. Hoo-fucking ray._ It only made Hans seem even farther away. One day, she ventured outside during a heavy snowfall. Her boots sank into the snow as she trudged along.

 _Ugh, I really need to shovel._ She thought. Yet another thing that had to be done. She shivered slightly. The wind whipped her hair in front of her face, and she reached up to push it away. She looked up at the heavy gray sky. No sun anywhere. She saw a group of Canada geese flying in a perfect V, honking loudly as they went. She wondered where they were going. _Somewhere better, that’s for damn sure…_

She fumbled in her pants pocket for her lighter. She lit a cigarette, holding it between two fingers. She hadn’t smoked in nearly a decade, since the first time Hans was sick. But just this once, she would allow herself to backslide. She was feeling miserable enough to lapse back into the old habit. Even after seeing what it did to him.

She exhaled. The smoke was warm, acrid. It irritated her lungs. She coughed a bit. And then she saw it all over again. Hans coughing up blood. The blood-soaked tissues in the wastebasket. The strained, rasping, sound of his breathing.

It was too much. “Fuck!” Sylvia cursed aloud. She threw her cigarette to the ground and crushed it under her boot.

She exhaled deeply and shoved her hands in her pockets. It was cold enough to see her own breath.

  
**POSTSCRIPT**

_Hans died in my arms on August 19 th, 1979. It was very peaceful, and he wasn’t in any pain. Our long and difficult journey was finally over. He faced death with more grace and gravitas than anyone I have ever known. I spent those last few months caring for him until the day he died. We struggled through so many bad days together- it made the good days even more special. I will always be especially grateful to our hospice program. The people there were positive, compassionate, everything you would want them to be. Their guidance made everything so much easier. Because of them, Hans was able to spend his last months free of pain (mostly) and doing things he loved. Like writing this book._

_I completed Hans’ memoir according to his wishes. I like to think he would be satisfied with it. He continued writing until the very end. When he became too weak to write, I took dictation from him. Reading those last words, I cried. I cried because they left such an impact on me, and because they were the last words he put to paper. Everything you’ve read here, from beginning to end- barring some minor corrections- is all Hans’ writing. The manuscript was more or less complete, I just added a few finishing touches. He trusted me to tell his story after he was gone. No, he always insisted it was **our** story. I take that responsibility very seriously. I hope that you, the reader, will come away with a better understanding of this complicated man and our life together._

-Sylvia Leventhal-Landa, April 1980


	5. Waiting for the Night

In mid-June, Hans began having difficulty breathing, and walking suddenly became painful for him. They immediately made plans to see a doctor. What if the cancer was back? What if that’s what it was? They each suspected, but desperately hoped it wasn’t true. It was important to get an expert opinion either way. It was something that hung between them, unspoken. Like if they ignored it it would go away. But deep down, they knew. They knew, and they were afraid of what lay ahead.  
  
The doctor had been refreshingly honest and didn’t sugarcoat anything. The cancer was advanced. It had spread from Hans’ lung to his spine. At such a late stage, there was nothing that could be done. 

He had told Hans: “…And at your age, you don’t want aggressive treatment anyway.”

Of course not. Sylvia knew her husband, she knew his wishes. He didn’t want to torture himself for a few extra years that weren’t really living.

They drove home in silence. Hans just stared out the window, like the black, rushing, landscape was the most interesting thing in the world. Sylvia sat rigidly in her seat, tightly-gripping the steering wheel. Her shoulders were raised. There was an almost physical tension between them. Like something was about to snap. They had four months at most.

This was it. This was the end. It was so bleak. Final. It felt almost like a stab wound.

They didn’t speak until they finally arrived home and got out of the car. Sylvia slammed the door a little harder than she intended. In the silence of the night, it was almost deafening.

Without saying a word, she went to Hans and hugged him tightly. Her whole body shuddered violently.

“Hans, what are we going to do?!” she gasped out. She hated how broken she sounded. How _terrified._

Hans stroked her back in an attempt to soothe her. “I shouldn’t have to tell you, angel, you already know the answer…” he chided. When Sylvia said nothing, he continued: “There’s nothing either of us can do now. The situation, I’m afraid, is out of our hands. All we can do is attempt to make it marginally less awful. I know. I know it’s not what you wanted to hear. It’s not what _I_ wanted to hear, either. But this is the hand we’ve been dealt. All we can do is accept it.”

Sylvia clung to him. Everything was dark and still and endless. She could feel the blood rushing in her ears. Her heart racing in her chest, about to burst.

“How am I supposed to live without you?” she whispered.

“I’m certain you’ll figure it out.” Hans remarked, but she could hear the pain in his voice. He sounded hoarse. Raw. After an interval, he had to force himself to speak again: “We should start looking into…What was it called? Oh, yes. Hospice.”

“We should.” She said numbly. “I’ll start calling around.”

“Yes, yes, the sooner the better…” Hans exhorted her.

They went inside together. It suddenly felt like they’d arrived in a whole different world.

One evening, in July, they decided to go outside together. Hans wasn’t in pain tonight, and had much more energy than usual. These were always the best days. They walked slowly through the garden, Hans dragging his oxygen tank behind him, Sylvia walking beside him. Although he was limping, he carried himself with a certain confidence. With pride, and a bit of his old arrogance. He started walking just ahead of Sylvia. Like he knew exactly where he was going.

They walked past the roses, petunias, and other assorted flowers. Neither of them could really appreciate the flowers, though. Their minds were elsewhere. It was a warm, tranquil evening, but with Hans' impending death looming over them, it was hard to enjoy it. At the rate his disease was progressing, he was unlikely to live past August. Past the end of the summer. He would never see fall or winter ever again.

“Do you wish you had more time?” Sylvia blurted.

Hans mulled over his answer. He stroked his chin in contemplation. “It’s complicated, actually.” He finally said. “On one hand, I feel I’ve accomplished everything I can in life- ignoring my countless regrets, of course…Say what you will about these past thirty-five years, but they were a highly productive time. I’ve made my peace with death, but I can’t bear the thought of leaving you all alone. No one on this godforsaken earth will love you as much as I do, or know you as well as I do, and that's…That’s exactly what I’m afraid of.” He looked so somber. He knew how difficult this would be for her.

Sylvia stepped closer to him. “I can’t imagine being with someone else. I don’t even want to think about it…I wish it didn’t have to be this way.” She choked out. It took everything in her not to cry. _I can’t be a mess. I can’t be…_

Hans sensed her discomfort. He placed both hands on her shoulders and looked her in the eyes. He said softly: “I don’t mean to frighten you, angel. I know how upsetting this is for you, and I understand. But there are difficult conversations we simply must have. It’s all right to feel scared, you know. Given the circumstances, it’s perfectly natural. You don’t have to be strong all the time, nor do I expect you to. Just know this: I’m yours for as long as you have me.”

At first, Sylvia said nothing. She just hugged him tightly, her face pressed against him. She squeezed him so hard she almost worried about hurting him. But Hans seemed unfazed.

“Am I really that obvious? God…” she murmured, reluctantly pulling away from him.

Hans kissed her forehead. “It’s all right to get a bit emotional. In fact, I would be more concerned if you _didn’t_ … It’s nothing to worry about, truly. There are times I forget how fortunate I am to have you. I love you.”

“I love you, too.” She looked up at him with a sad smile.

They were silent for an interval.

“I’ll be blunt: this is perhaps the hardest thing you will ever do.” Hans admitted, his voice slightly gruff. “But if my opinion counts for anything, I think you’re handling it far better than most. Then again, I’m also biased. You impress me with your bravery every single day.”

“Thank you. I’m trying my best here…” Sylvia breathed. She felt safe with him. At ease. Almost like everything would be all right.

They stood there for a while, looking up at the sky. At the sunset. They had learned to appreciate the small, ordinary, things in life now. The sky was streaked with fading shades of blue, pink, and orange. It was slowly but surely getting darker. They held hands and watched the sun slip lower and lower on the horizon.

Sylvia walked slowly and carefully down the path. It was so dark she couldn’t see in front of her. At least her flashlight cut through the darkness. She had wanted to take a walk before it got dark out, and ended up staying outside much longer than she planned. It was coming up on a year now since Hans’ death. She could hardly believe it, but it was true. It was a humid, sweltering, August night. Her damp hair was plastered to her shoulders. Somewhere, she could hear cicadas droning.

How suddenly the night had fallen. It only made her feel even more lost and alone. For the past year, she felt like she had been stumbling around in the dark without a map or a flashlight. It felt exactly like this. She slapped at a mosquito that landed on her arm.

Now she could see the house looming in front of her. Or rather, its outline. Sylvia walked up to the front door and began fishing around for her keys. As she let herself in, Hans’ words echoed at the back of her mind: _You don’t have to be strong all the time._

Today was one of those days. She got lost in her memories. She didn’t feel strong at all. But somehow, she kept on going. Why? In the hope that maybe, someday, it wouldn’t hurt as much.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title: Waiting for the Night, by Depeche Mode.


	6. Falling Together

Sylvia sat at the kitchen table, staring nervously at the wall-mounted phone. Her palms were sweaty, and her heart was starting to race. Even calling Moira had been a herculean effort. She was not sure if she could tell her daughter without breaking down all over again. Still, she had to try. She took a deep breath, dialed Miri’s number, and waited.

“Hello?” she could hear her daughter’s voice on the other end of the line.

Sylvia closed her eyes. “Hi, Miri, it’s Mom…I…I have some bad news: It’s your father.” It was all she could say. She couldn’t bring herself to say _he’s dead._

“What?!” Miri yelped. Sylvia could almost see her shocked expression. “That’s impossible. He can’t be dead. I just talked to him this morning, he was fine!”

Sylvia stared down at the floor. “You know how quickly things can change. He suddenly got much worse this afternoon, and he…He passed away. He’s gone!” she choked out. It took everything in her not to burst into tears again.

A long silence. Sylvia could hear her daughter sobbing brokenly.

“I can’t believe I wasn’t there! I should have been…Shit!”

Sylvia wished Miri were here. She longed to take her in her arms and hold her. “Oh, sweetheart, you couldn’t have known. It happened **so** fast. He wasn’t in pain. He wasn’t suffering. I was holding him in my arms, and he just…Just stopped breathing. I’m glad you got to talk to him today. I don’t think _any_ of us knew today would be goodbye…”

“When is the funeral?” Miri whispered.

Sylvia grimaced. The funeral. She didn’t even want to start thinking about that yet. “Uh, I haven’t made any plans yet, but I’m aiming for Friday. Does that work for you?”

“Yes, Friday is fine. I’ll be there…” Miri said, exhaling.

“Miri, I am so sorry I just dropped this on you. But I couldn’t think of any other way to tell you. And I didn’t want to keep you in the dark, either…” Sylvia was truly sorry. It was such a shock to the system. But there was no other way to do this.

“No, no, it’s all right. I’m just in shock, you know?” Miri sounded completely overwhelmed.

“I understand, so am I. But we’ll get together at the funeral, and we’ll talk there. How does that sound?”

“That sounds good. Mom?”

“Yes?”

“I love you.” Miri said in a small voice. She had never sounded this vulnerable, not since she was a child.

“I love you, too. And so did your father. We’re going to get through this…Somehow.” Sylvia tried her best to sound strong, but there was little conviction in her words. Still, they were a family. They would weather this storm together somehow.

A week after the funeral, Sylvia got a phone call from Alain.

“Hello there, Sylvia. How are you faring these days? … _Bollocks,_ that was a stupid question! I’m sorry.”

She smiled wanly, crossing one leg over the other. “No, no, it’s all right…Honestly, I’m pretty awful. I’m just taking it one day at a time and trying to survive.”

“I see…Yes, that sounds about right, all things considered. You were amazing at the funeral, though. Did you really improvise the entire eulogy?”

Sylvia leaned back against her chair. Sunlight streamed in from the kitchen window, warming her. “Yeah, I did. I still don’t know how the hell I did that. I think Hans would have liked it, though.”

“As do I, it was very fitting.”

For a moment, neither of them spoke. It was so awkward trying to think of things to say.

“Um, how is Smithson?” Sylvia asked.

“Smithson is fantastic! He sends his love.” In the background, she could hear someone- probably Smithson- bustling around in the kitchen.

“That’s sweet of him. Tell him I appreciate it.”

“I certainly will. Oh, and Sylvia?”

“Yeah?”

Alain sighed. “I hope you’ll forgive me for saying this…I know it probably sounds trite. But Hans wouldn’t want you to be sad.”

Sylvia winced. “Yeah, I’ve thought about that. And you’re right. He wouldn’t. I’m glad you never saw Hans near the end. It was heartbreaking. He was so weak, he could barely do anything. I tried my best to make things easier for him. I took care of him because I loved him, and I’ll never regret that.”

“Not many people could do what you did. It takes a certain kind of strength, I think.”

Sylvia was too modest to accept his praise: “For me, it was never even a question. I just did what I had to do. I miss Hans. I’ll probably miss him every day for the rest of my life. But at the same time…I’m glad he’s free now. He knew it was his time.”

“Yes, there’s something admirable about that, isn’t it? If only we could all face death with such courage…It was lovely talking to you, Sylvia. It always is. I just wanted to check up on you and see how you were doing.”

“I’m glad you called. It helps, talking to someone else who knew Hans. I hope we can talk again soon, but I understand if you’re too busy…”

“I’m sure we’ll be able to work out something. After all, we’ve known each other all these years; it’s what we do. Look out for each other.”

“You’re right. It is. Thanks a lot, Alain, and we’ll talk again soon. Goodbye.”

“Farewell, my dear. And remember: Take care of yourself.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I decided to do something different and write a mostly dialogue-based chapter. I'm really happy with how it came out!


	7. Breathe

Sylvia hated seeing Hans waste away in front of her. It was extremely painful to watch. But he had so little strength, even eating took a toll on him. She sat beside their bed one morning, watching him pick at his breakfast: a bread roll with jam, and a cup of coffee.

“Hans, please, you’ve got to eat _something_ …” Sylvia exhorted him. She knew how hard this was, and she didn’t want to sound like she was scolding him.

Hans took another small sip of his coffee. “I know, angel, I’m trying. Really, I am. It’s just very strenuous for me…”

In the end, he was able to eat most of the roll, which was a big effort for him. Sylvia was satisfied with that.

Sylvia tried not to leave Hans’ side unless she really had to. She went into town once a week to buy groceries, but that was it. Even these routine errands were difficult. There was always the terrifying possibility that Hans might be dead when she got home. She was always relieved to find him sleeping or reading a book or absorbed in his writing.

When she got home one afternoon, she said, without even thinking: “You’re…You’re all right.” She stared at him in amazement.

Hans put aside _Tinker, Tailor, Soldier, Spy._ “As opposed to _what,_ dead? No, of course I’m not dead, you silly girl!” he scoffed. “Now come here and lie down with me…” he patted the space beside him.

Sylvia needed no second bidding. She got into bed and lay down next to Hans. He wrapped his thin arms around her and pulled her close. They clung to each other. Lying next to him was always so comforting. The reassurance of _I’m here_ and _you’re here._ Safe and together.

There were times she went to bed afraid. Afraid of finding Hans cold and dead in the morning. She never told him that, though. It was always a relief to wake up to find him sleeping peacefully beside her. Still breathing.

Even now, over thirty years later, Hans still had nightmares. At least they didn’t happen every night. Sometimes he went weeks on end without having one. But they never fully went away. Sylvia often heard him pleading and crying out to the dead:

“Please…I am so, so, sorry. I was an evil man. I did monstrous things. And for what? My own personal ambition! I’d take it all back if I could…”

Sylvia let him talk. She lay there with her eyes closed, pretending to be asleep. Even now that he was dying, she had no desire to comfort him. They were his choices, and all these years later, he was still paying the price. But, one night, she found herself wavering.

She could hear Hans’ labored breathing. Feel him groping around for her in the dark. He was talking, but his voice was slurred. She couldn’t make out what he was saying. He was probably still in the dream.

Sylvia turned on the lamp on the nightstand and shook him awake. “Hans! Hans, wake up! You’re fine. Everything’s all right. The war is over, you’re in America…”

Hans’ breathing slowed a bit, and he opened his eyes.

“Sylvia?” he panted, blinking repeatedly. His eyes were still heavy.

She sat up a bit straighter, looking at him. “What? What is it?”

“Sylvia…I’m so very sorry if I woke you. I had the most dreadful nightmare. I could have sworn it was real- then again, they’re always like that.”

“About the people you killed.” She said flatly. It was a statement, not a question.

“Yes.” Hans still sounded slightly out of breath.

“Hans, you know how I feel about this.” Her words cut through him.

“Yes, I do…” He couldn’t even look at her. He was too ashamed. “It was easier not to think of them as people, but as…Vermin to be exterminated. I never truly believed the Jews were inferior, but that doesn’t matter. I still threw my lot in with the nazis. I joined them not only willingly, but _enthusiastically._ I have tried so hard and for so many years to atone for my crimes, but there is blood on my hands that can never be cleansed.” Hans looked at her brokenly.

Sylvia never knew what to say when Hans had these hopeless moments. She didn’t want to comfort him, because everything he said was true. He had spent the past three decades trying to come to terms with his crimes. It was, she knew, an unwinnable battle. So they sat there in silence for a few minutes, neither knowing what to say. Festering in their own minds.

Finally, Hans said: “I’m rather pleased you entered my life when you did. Otherwise…Otherwise, I don’t want to think about who or what I might have become.”

Sylvia rested her head on his shoulder. “I’m glad we found each other, and that I got to spend my life with you.”

“As am I. I will miss you so very much…” He rested his forehead against hers, and pressed a kiss to her lips. “Thank you for giving me _something_ to live for, and something worth dreaming about.”

“You’re welcome.” Sylvia managed a tiny smile, in spite of herself. “Now come on, it’s late. We _both_ really need to get some sleep…” she grumbled, turning off the lamp.

They both fell asleep before too long. Hans had no more nightmares that night.

Sylvia knocked on the bedroom door. “Hans? Hans, are you still writing?”

“At the moment, yes. Why?” She could hear the typewriter keys clacking.

“…I made strudel.”

Hans instantly sat up straighter. “Strudel?” his voice was barely above a surprised whisper.

“Yes, really! I thought…Well, I thought we could eat it together. But if you’re not hungry I can always save it for later.”

“Angel, don’t be ridiculous! I _always_ have an appetite for strudel…” Hans was almost salivating now.

She chuckled. “I’ll get it then, just give me a minute…” Sylvia hurried down the stairs and into the kitchen. She returned carrying two plates of strudel on a tray. She entered the bedroom and carefully set the tray on the bed. Then, she settled into her nearby chair and placed the other plate on her lap.

“So, what do you think?” Sylvia asked, slowly getting started on her pastry. Truth be told, she was a little nervous. She couldn’t even remember the last time she made strudel. Certainly not within the last month.

Hans ate slowly and painstakingly, taking care not to make a mess. For the longest time, he said nothing. Sylvia grew increasingly tense. Finally, he said: “This…This is excellent. You should be pleased with yourself. My poor girl, I can just see you slaving away in the kitchen to make this! I mean, really, Sylvia, all this for me?”

Sylvia smiled weakly at him. “It was worth it, though.” She lifted her fork and ate another mouthful of strudel. It was flaky and rich. There was something comforting about the taste of apples and cinnamon. “And I even served it with cream, the way you like it.” She dryly added.

“Yes, I noticed. Nothing escapes you, does it? There are times I think you are almost as observant as I am. _Almost._ ”

Sylvia rolled her eyes. “Would you quit looking so smug?”

“Perhaps that was a bit much.” Hans conceded. By now, he had finished eating. Only crumbs remained. “But regardless, the compliment stands. You have thoroughly impressed me with your baking skills. I am quite simply in awe of your delectable strudel. Now come here, so I can kiss you…” His voice sounded both pleading and demanding.

Sylvia dutifully went to him. Hans pulled her close, and she felt the soft brush of his lips on hers. She closed her eyes and gave in to his affection. The kiss quickly deepened. Their tongues met. She couldn’t remember the last time she had felt this happy. Each good day was something to cherish. And when they were good, they were the best.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title: Breathe, by Pink Floyd
> 
> The scene with the strudel was a last-minute addition, but I'm glad I decided to include it! I hope I did an okay job of balancing the fluff and the angst. That can be such a hard thing to get right. I didn't want the shift in tone to seem jarring.


	8. Wrapped Around Your Finger

Sylvia kept Hans’ wedding band. She had known, instantly, that she wanted to keep it. It was a decision she never regretted. Though physical reminders of him were all over the house (some more painful than others), this small piece of him was especially important to her. If not _the_ most important. She kept it in a small box in the nightstand drawer. Every once in a while, when she really felt low, she would take it out and look at it.

It was not in perfect shape. It had become a bit worn and tarnished over the years. But that was what gave it its charm. Sylvia briefly considered wearing it on a chain around her neck, before rejecting that idea. She was not really sure _what_ to do with it. If anything. So for now, it would stay tucked away in the nightstand. There when she needed it.

She had no intention of getting rid of her own ring, either. She had not taken it off since Hans died, and maybe she never would. She couldn’t imagine having a serious relationship with another man, let alone remarrying. It was almost impossible to picture. And yet, there was a part of her that longed for companionship. Not just romantic, but in general. Yes, she had Alain, Smithson, and Miri, and she tried staying in touch with them as much as possible. But Hans had left a gaping hole in her life she feared was impossible to fill.

Had it really been over thirty years since they got married? Just thinking about it made Sylvia feel embarrassingly old. But it was still so fresh in her memory it felt like yesterday. Every time she looked at the ring, or touched it, or slid it onto her finger, the memories came flooding back. Hans had worn it every day, from the day they were married to the day he died. And now it was hers. It was something that brought her comfort.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the short length; this is just a drabble! But there will be some shorter pieces mixed in here as well.


	9. Science Fiction/Double Feature

“Hans, why are we watching this movie? It’s so awful.” Sylvia whispered around her hand.

Hans shook his head and looked at her like she was a lost cause. “We are watching it precisely _because_ it’s awful!” He laughed.

They were watching The Beast of Yucca Flats on a late-night horror channel. Some of these movies were almost unwatchably bad. Beast was perhaps the worst yet. On the screen, the monster murdered a young couple whose car had broken down.

“Flag. On the moon. How did it get there?!” Sylvia snickered, imitating the narrator’s stilted, awkward, dialogue.

They both burst into hysterical laughter. Laughing over this terrible movie, they could forget about their situation for just a little while.

The movie was only 54 minutes long, but it seemed to drag on for hours. In addition to the smug, pretentious narration, all the dialogue had been dubbed in later. It ended with the monster stroking- and kissing- a wild rabbit before finally dying.

“That rabbit was the best actor in the whole damn movie.” Sylvia remarked. She lightly elbowed Hans in the ribs.

“Yes, truly a star turn!” He retorted, grinning. “By now, he must be one of the most in-demand names in Hollywood…”

“He deserves an Oscar!” Sylvia gasped.

When the next movie started, Sylvia rested her head on Hans’ shoulder. He pulled her closer. Hans was fascinated by these movies, much more than she was. He prided himself on being cultured, and he couldn’t understand why anyone made this slapped-together garbage. As for Sylvia, well, she wasn’t complaining. She enjoyed watching these movies with Hans and making fun of how bad they were. It was an escape, a distraction.

In their circumstances, it was always good to have something to laugh about. She would take the happy moments where she could find them.

  
  


“I absolutely hate this.” Hans announced one day, his voice dripping with exasperation.

“Hate what?” Sylvia asked, though she was pretty sure she knew.

“Being confined to bed. It makes me feel like some pathetic invalid!” he gestured frustratedly at the bed.

Sylvia could understand her husband’s feelings. At least he was not paralyzed, but walking was painful, and took a lot out of him. They would not be able to go outside today anyway. It had rained heavily throughout the day and had only just stopped. Outside, the sky was dark and gloomy.

“I understand.” She said quietly, her hands resting in her lap. She took a breath. “Is there anything I can do to help you?”

Hans thought about it for a moment. “Actually, yes, there is…I want you to lie down facing me.”

Sylvia did as he asked, and got into bed with him. They were facing each other now, looking into each other’s eyes.

“I want to just…Talk for a while. That’s all.” He said softly.

Sylvia shifted a bit closer to him. “About anything in particular?”

“No. But is there anything on your mind, anything you’d like to discuss…?”

Sylvia hesitated before saying: “Yes. I’d like to go see a movie, Dracula.” She admitted, sounding a bit sheepish.

Hans raised an eyebrow. “And what, exactly, is preventing you from going?”

She sighed and wrung her hands. “I really don’t want to leave you. It makes me nervous.”

“Sylvia, I’m not going to wither away and expire if you leave me unattended.” Hans gently told her. “Your devotion to me is truly remarkable, and I commend you for it, but I hate to see you neglect yourself. If that’s what makes you happy, then by all means, see the film. I insist.”

Sylvia bit her lip. Her fears were not entirely unjustified, but she felt embarrassed. Almost a little foolish. “You’re sure you’ll be all right?”

“I am certain. I’ll find ways to keep myself entertained, don’t you worry. And I want you to tell me all about it when you return- that’s an order.” Hans teased her.

“I will.” Sylvia felt a little less afraid now.

“Good. Oh, angel, you shouldn’t be so terrified of enjoying yourself without me. It isn’t healthy…” Now he looked more than a little concerned. Hans took her hand, squeezed it, and kissed her on the lips.

“No, it’s not.” Sylvia admitted, sounding a bit sullen.

Soon they wouldn’t be able to spend time together at all. Neither of them wanted to say it though.

“Will you behave while I’m gone?” Sylvia asked, feeling a bit of her old playfulness return.

“I’ll certainly try, but I can’t make any promises…” Hans retorted, giving her a sly grin.

Even so much older, and gaunt from weight loss, he was still so handsome. She was still completely in love with him. When they had quiet moments like these, the rest of the world seemed to melt away. They lay there together, just talking. After a while they lost track of time. They spent the rest of their evening that way, and it was a good diversion for them both.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title: Science Fiction/Double Feature, The Rocky Horror Picture Show
> 
> Here, have a fluff interlude. Yes, the Beast of Yucca Flats is an actual movie, and yes, it really is this bad!


	10. Wish You Were Here

Sylvia adored her grandchildren. They always brightened her day, and she didn’t get to see them nearly as much as she liked. Alexandra (Alex) was ten- almost eleven- and Wendy was eight. Physically, they were very similar: both had pale skin and dark hair, but Alex had blue eyes while Wendy’s were brown. In terms of personalities, they could not have been more different. Alex was such a serious child, always engrossed in a book by Beverly Cleary or Judy Blume. In Sylvia’s mind, she tried too hard to act like a grown-up. Wendy, on the other hand, was cheerful and extroverted and would talk your ear off if you let her.

When the girls came to visit, Sylvia always found fun things for them to do together. Like getting ice cream or going to the park. She was not going to let them sit around staring at the TV all day. They never complained and always ended up having a good time. It was hard for her not to feel a little bitter as she hugged them goodbye: Now she was alone again.

The girls were probably the only ones **not** devastated by Hans’ death. At their age, they were still too young to fully understand death. After Hans got sick, he forbid Miri from bringing them over. He didn’t want them to see him so sick and in pain. He didn’t want them to live with those memories. Sylvia couldn’t blame him.

One day, in the spring, Sylvia got an opportunity to spend the day in Boston with her granddaughters. It was an adventure: the girls wanted to ride on the swan boats, go to the park, and the Children's Museum. Sylvia was happy to oblige them. Their smiles and laughter were so worth it.

They walked through the Back Bay together, the streets lined with ornate old brownstones. Sylvia desperately hoped her granddaughters wouldn’t get lost in the crowd. Because it was such a warm day, there were a lot of tourists and families with young children on the streets.

Every so often, they would take off and try to dart ahead of her. Like it was a game. They even laughed!

“Girls! Girls, come on! Stay close to me. Your mothers will kill me if I let you out of my sight…” Sylvia called after them.  
  
She hurried to catch up with them, muttering “Excuse me!” and “Sorry.” to the people she bumped into. She felt relieved when they were all together again.

Even after all these years, being in Boston still felt…Bittersweet. She was flooded with memories of Donny, and what could have been between them. They could have settled down here and started a family. It sounded like a nice life. She even could have grown to love it. But Donny was dead, and had been for almost forty years. He would never get old.

Instead, she had chosen to spend her life with Hans. It had had its ups and downs- especially near the end- but she knew she would never regret it. She loved him with all of her being. Though she didn’t believe in an afterlife, Sylvia still liked to think that Hans, Bunny, and Donny were all together somehow. Catching up on what they’d missed. They would have a lot to talk about, surely.

But Sylvia didn’t have much time to dwell on these thoughts. She had a fun, busy, day with her grandchildren. Their trip to the park was the last item on their busy schedule. It started off uneventfully. Sylvia let the girls have fun on the playground, and after that they would walk around for a while. Then, out of the corner of her eye, Sylvia noticed a man walking a friendly-looking golden retriever.

Wendy bolted ahead of her, making a beeline for the man and his dog. “Hey! Hey mister, can I pet your dog? Please?” she gave him a pleading, desperate, look.

The man laughed. “Go ahead, sweetie. He’s really friendly, he loves people…”

Wendy beamed. She began stroking the dog’s head, and he panted happily.

Sylvia rolled her eyes. “That’s your sister. She has to pet every dog she sees…”

“Yeah, she’s such a dork.” Alex snorted, a smug look on her face.

“She is **not** a dork, young lady! Don’t give me an attitude!” Sylvia scolded her. “Now come on. Let’s go rescue this poor man and his dog.”

They approached them. Wendy was still petting the dog, and talking to him like he was a person. The dog seemed to love it.

Sylvia apologized profusely to the owner: “Hey, I am so sorry about that. My granddaughter _loves_ dogs- as I’m sure you can tell- but I need her to understand that not all dogs are friendly. And you always need to **ask** before petting a dog.”

But he only smiled at her. “Really, it’s no problem. She _did_ ask, and he really seems to like her, so no harm done.”

The dog barked and licked Wendy’s hand. She giggled.

“See, Grandma? He’s my friend!” She exclaimed.

After a few more minutes, Sylvia managed to pry Wendy away from the friendly dog. The rest of their time at the park went more or less according to plan. Alex and Wendy had a great time. But Sylvia could not stop thinking about her granddaughter running after the dog. For an instant, she had been thrown back forty years. Hans _loved_ dogs, and acted similarly whenever they met one. In his excitement, he would forget everything else and start petting the dog. Or throw a stick for it. Or romp with it on the grass.

Sylvia would go up to the owners and apologize, but they were understanding more often than not. It was strange, seeing her normally straitlaced and dignified husband get so excited about something. But once she got over her initial shock, she thought it was endearing.

 _God, I can’t believe something like **this** set me off._ She thought. It was a little embarrassing. There would _always_ be things that upset her and made her think of Hans. That was inevitable. But sometimes the little things hurt the most.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title: Wish You Were Here, by Pink Floyd
> 
> I REALLY wanted to give Hans and Sylvia grandchildren, but with Miri being lesbian at this point in history, it’s kind of tricky. Same-sex adoption was extremely rare in the 1970s, as was a gay parent winning custody of their child/children. So, are the girls adopted? Are they the product of a previous straight relationship? I'm going to just keep it ambiguous.


	11. Solo

Spring – Summer 1981

Sylvia still had no idea how it happened. She had no interest in getting a dog. It took a lot of work and investment she wasn’t sure she could put in. That wouldn’t be fair to her _or_ the dog. And Hans had loved dogs so much. That made it doubly hard. And yet, somehow, she ended up at the local animal shelter one day. She walked through the room lined with chain-link dog runs. The sound of barking dogs echoed off the walls, and made it impossible to think.

Try as she might, she didn’t like any of the dogs. She felt no connection to them. She was just about ready to leave when she came to the very last dog: A puppy, maybe only a few months old. He had a beautiful blue merle coat and blue eyes. His right ear was pricked, his left ear was folded. When he saw Sylvia, he stood on his hind legs and barked cheerfully. His tail was wagging a mile a minute, and his pink tongue lolled.

Sylvia smiled in spite of herself.

“I think we need each other, don’t we?” she thought aloud. It was, she knew, a silly thing to say. He was a _dog!_ But why did she feel like he was a kindred spirit?

She tried to pet him through the chain link, and he sloppily licked her hand.

Sylvia ended up going home with him. He was four months old, part Australian Shepherd, part who-knows-what-else. His mother and siblings had all been adopted, but no one seemed to want this poor little thing. She named him Solo: partly after Harrison Ford’s smuggler character from Star Wars, and partly because he was alone. He had no one. Except for her.

As much as she already loved Solo, Sylvia questioned what she was getting herself into. Living with a puppy was, in some ways, not unlike living with a newborn baby. He ate everything in sight, constantly had to go to the bathroom, and often woke her up with his barking. At least he was already housebroken and up to date on his shots.

But he was worth it. She still loved him, even if he sometimes drove her crazy. She taught him basic commands, and took him to the park to socialize with other dogs. He was smart, no question about that. He quickly mastered sit, stay, heel, and came when she called him. He was ridiculously friendly and got along with dogs and people. He liked to nuzzle her hand and sit next to her on the couch. He always followed her around the house so she was never alone. Solo had definitely changed her life for the better, even if he made it a lot more chaotic.

It went without saying he was a big hit with Alex and Wendy. They were always begging to walk him or feed him treats.

“…Just don’t give him **too** many treats, or he’ll get fat!” Sylvia firmly but gently told them.

When the summer came, Sylvia started going outside more often, to walk Solo or take him to the park. As the weather got warmer, she started taking him for walks along the beach. He would strain against the leash and try to race ahead of her.

And she would tell him, almost like he was a person: “Solo, please, I’m old. I can’t go chasing after you all the time!”

It was nice to go to the beach with someone. Even if that someone happened to be a dog.

When Solo was fully-grown, he weighed thirty pounds. Somewhat less than a full Aussie. But that was fine with Sylvia. She wasn’t sure if she could handle a larger dog. As he got older, he calmed down a bit, and lost that endless reserve of energy. He was still very goofy though, and loved playing with his toys.

Sylvia realized Solo had given her a purpose. And responsibility. He made her feel just a little less alone. She was so certain Hans would have loved him, too. That was bittersweet to think about. When Sylvia saw her granddaughters fussing over Solo or chasing him through the house, she always smiled. Having young life in the house was always a good thing.


	12. Lonely is the Word

Sylvia first began having nightmares in the winter of 1980. When the days were short and dark, and she drifted numbly through life. She was at a loss as to why she was having nightmares. Hans’ death was not violent or traumatic. It was peaceful. He had died exactly the way he wanted.

Sometimes she dreamed she was drowning. She thrashed around in stinging black water, struggling to keep her head up. Gasping for air and fighting against the current. But it was always useless. She would fall back into the depths, her lungs and skin burning. Sinking to the bottom as she tried to claw her way back to the surface. Other times, she was lost in darkness. She felt trapped. Alone. Frightened. In the distance, she could hear Hans calling for her, but she couldn’t go to him. They were forever separated.

She always woke up gasping for breath and drenched in cold sweat, the blankets tangled around her legs. Of course her first instinct was to reach for Hans. _Hans is dead. What the hell is wrong with me?!_ She mentally scolded herself. But it was a reflex. After all these years, it was ingrained in her, and not so easy to get rid of. So she rolled over to his side of the bed and tried to go back to sleep. Sleeping there always brought her a small bit of comfort.

Then again, there was the fact Hans had died in this bed. In that very spot. Wasn’t that a little morbid? And it wasn’t like she would be sharing it anytime soon. Part of Sylvia wanted to just get rid of it and replace it with a single. But she couldn’t bring herself to do it. After all, they had slept in this bed for thirty-five years. It was a source of so many memories, both good and bad. But mostly good. So for now, she would hang onto it. If only for sentimental reasons.

She thought about bringing up the nightmares to her doctor. But he would probably just put her on sleeping pills. And she wasn’t so keen on taking pills for a problem that didn’t necessarily require them. So she took the matter into her own hands. She talked to her psychiatrist about it, and started going to bed earlier. She also began sleeping on Hans’ side of the bed. It didn’t happen right away, but the nightmares eventually stopped. She felt so relieved- and more than a little proud of herself- when they did.

Sylvia ended up visiting Hans’ grave a lot that first winter. The cemetery seemed almost peaceful with everything blanketed in snow. It was silent, too. Being here, it almost felt like time had stopped. The only sound was her boots crunching dully through the snow. She went to Hans’ grave, where her own name stared back at her. She would join him here, on some faraway day. That only made her even more resistant to finding another partner. Sometimes she talked to him- very quietly, in case someone was around- other times, she simply stood there with her hands in her pockets. Letting herself reminiscence. She missed his touch and his voice and just everything about him.

It was fitting she was here now. Winter was a time when everything died. Everything was bitterly cold and frozen-over. It seemed so very unfair that she was alive, while he was buried in the frozen earth. She always hated thinking of him that way. Her husband, who had been so alive right up to the very end. Gone forever. In a box in the ground.

“I wish you were here with me now…” she thought aloud, brushing snowflakes out of her hair.

Sylvia remembered something Hans had said to her, a few days before he died: “I’m not in pain, angel, I promise. I’m quite comfortable. I’m just…So exhausted, you know? I want to rest. I’m looking forward to it.” He looked at her with heavy, half-closed eyes.

In that moment, she had felt so selfish for wishing he could stay longer.

 _It’s not so simple, is it?_ She thought as she stood there, her shadow falling across the snow. No, nothing about Hans’ death had been simple or easy. She felt almost relieved as she left the cemetery. Going there always brought a twisted tangle of emotions she wasn’t sure how to deal with.

As time passed, she got in the habit of leaving flowers on Hans’ birthday, holidays, and simply whenever she felt like it. It was a small gesture, but at least it was _something._ It made her feel more comfortable going to the cemetery, and just a little less likely to burst into tears. Being out in the world and doing things was always better than being stuck at home. Trapped with her memories. At home, where something, _something,_ would remind her of Hans and send her into a depression that lasted the whole day.

A year after Hans died, Sylvia tried dating. She dated two men around her own age, both divorced. They were perfectly nice men. They were kind and sociable and occasionally even witty. But, try as she might, she couldn’t love them. She was unable to. God knew she tried.

When each relationship ended, she apologized profusely: “I’m sorry, I really am. It’s not you, it’s me. This just isn’t going anywhere.” She was always thinking of Hans. She would compare every man she dated to Hans. And they all paled in comparison.

 _Maybe I **can’t** love anyone else. Maybe that’s it._ She thought numbly. Being with anyone else felt _wrong._ Perverse, even. It only made her feel even worse. Like Alain once said, Hans wouldn’t want her to be sad. Then why couldn’t she seem to find love again? Why did she feel so closed-off and unable to love?

So a relationship was off the table. At least for now. Still, she tried to keep busy in other ways. She joined a book club at the local library. They always had interesting discussions. She traveled occasionally, though it wasn’t nearly as fun without Hans. And, perhaps most importantly, she began attending a support group. It met at a church, but it was non-denominational, and most of the members weren’t religious anyway.

They met every weekend, in a small room that had been provided for them. There were always snacks and coffee. Most of the members were Sylvia’s age or older, and had similar stories: long, drawn-out, illnesses. Still, there were younger people too. Many of them had lost their loved ones to suicides and car accidents. Everyone had his or her own awful story.

In some ways, Sylvia counted herself lucky. She hadn’t had to deal with dementia or nursing homes or unwanted procedures. Thank God for that. But every time she heard something too familiar, too hard-hitting, she had to excuse herself. She would go to the ladies’ room and shut herself in a stall. Sometimes she cried, sometimes she needed a few minutes to calm down and pull herself together. But there were times she felt overwhelmed and briefly needed to step away.

As time passed, Sylvia became more and more accepting of her empty romantic life. If she found someone who truly loved her, and also respected her relationship with Hans, that was great. Something worth celebrating, even. But if not, that was fine too. She could live with that. She had Miri and Alain and Smithson and her granddaughters and eventually, Solo. And maybe that was plenty.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title: Lonely is the Word, by Black Sabbath


	13. Paths of Glory

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We time travel back to World War I. This chapter was written as an excerpt from Hans' autobiography.

I was only twenty years old when I enlisted in the Austro-Hungarian Army. I was a lieutenant by the time I was twenty-one. It was not an easy thing, having to shoulder an officer’s responsibilities at such a young age. Still, I handled it as best I could. During my time in the army, I became acquainted with all manner of unseemly characters I would not have met otherwise. At first, they mocked me for my provincial background, accused me of putting on airs. But as time passed, all of that went away. We had no time for teasing each other or joking around.

My comrades and I spent many long days in the trenches. We smoked, talked, played cards, and wrote letters to our relatives back home. We often had to inspect our uniforms for lice. I remember seeing men whose legs were rotting off from trench foot; caked in mud and dripping with pus. I remember wading knee-deep in mud just to get to the field telephone. And I can certainly never forget all the long, empty, hours. Just sitting there, watching and waiting. We were like rats in the dark. I cleaned off my gun with a tattered rag until I felt like my hands would go numb. In the trenches, we were reduced to our most basic instincts.

Happy moments were far and few between, but there is one I will remember for as long as I live. It was 1916, in the spring or early summer. I was in a French tavern along with a group of soldiers from my unit. We had our own table all to ourselves. We talked and laughed over cheap schnapps, and for once we all felt like young men again.

Someone had wandered off to the piano to bang out “Der treue Husar”. Beside him, a drunken companion howled along. It did not make for pleasant listening. But my attention was not on them. Oh, no. I was rather focused on the pretty young waitress who had brought us our drinks. She was about my age, possibly a few years younger. I remember she had brown hair and wore a drab, faded, dress. But if one was willing to overlook her less-than-appealing choice of attire, she was really rather attractive. 

Someone elbowed me in the shoulder. It was Willi Schroder, one of my NCOs. He was a cheerful fellow who always made a joke out of everything. Although I outranked him, he was three years older, and never tired of reminding me.

“Hey! Hey Hansi! You should check out that girl, she’s just your type.” He hissed.

I stiffened and looked away from her. “What? I wasn’t staring. I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Willi gave a hoarse wheeze. “Oh, you can’t fool me, farm boy. I’ve seen the way you look at her!”

I sighed. “All right, all right, she _is_ very pretty…” I admitted.

“That’s the spirit! Now go, talk to her! You’re not going to get another chance!” He urged me.

And I realized he was right. I gathered my courage and went to her. She was waiting on an older French couple and attempting to make small talk with them. When she saw me, her eyes went wide. I knew how we must have looked to her. Like a bunch of hungry wolves.

“I’m very sorry, I didn’t mean to frighten you.” I said, very softly. “And I apologize if my comrades were rude to you. It’s just, we’ve been in the trenches for so long, we don’t really know how to act anymore.” I gave her my most earnest, apologetic smile.

She began walking away. I followed her.

She smiled back, but it was stiff and forced. It didn’t fool me for an instant. “You are very kind. But I’m fine. I don’t need anyone’s protection, least of all a German’s.”

“ _Au contraire,_ mademoiselle. I am Austrian.” I took her hand, brought it to my lips, and kissed it. “Leutnant Hans Landa. It is an absolute pleasure to meet you, Mademoiselle…?”

“Marthe Durand.” She supplied, looking at me coldly.

“Mademoiselle Durand. Such a lovely name…May I call you Marthe?”

“If I can call _you_ Hans.” She said with a slight grin.

“Yes, you certainly can!” I laughed. I liked her spirit. “You are very beautiful, Marthe. Much too beautiful for a wretched place like this.” She seemed so different from the other village girls. She had creamy skin, sad blue eyes, and she moved with an air of confidence. She was a pearl among filth.

I took a step closer to her. I reached out to stroke her hair, but she caught my wrist.

“Oh, spare me. I’ve heard it all before.” She muttered under her breath, glaring at me.

Perhaps I would have to be a bit more direct. “My sincerest apologies. I only wished to compliment you.” I lowered my voice: “But let me ask you one thing. How would you like to- shall we say- get to know each other more intimately? My men and I are leaving town in the morning, and I think it would be quite fun for both of us…”

Marthe’s face flushed in anger. Her fists were balled up at her sides. “Are you propositioning me?!” she snapped. “God, you’re just the same as the others…”

Now the patrons were staring at us. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Willi wince and shake his head. He looked so disappointed. Shame consumed me. But I would put the situation to right. There had to be a way…There always was.

“Marthe, could we _please_ discuss this elsewhere?” I hissed in her ear.

“And why should I listen to you, after what you said to me?” she spat.

I looked anxiously around the room. People were still watching, I knew. And trying to eavesdrop, no doubt. The sooner we could go somewhere more private, the better. I needed to be patient. And persistent, for that matter.

“I understand your apprehension. But I don’t want to give the locals any ideas about us, and I don’t think that _you_ do, either. Am I correct?” I kept my voice to a whisper, so only she and I would hear.

This seemed to, as Americans say, do the trick. I saw some of the anger leave her.

We went into the back room of the tavern. It was a small, dingy room, empty except for a single table and chairs. It was damp, and the air smelled faintly of mildew.

“That was…Close. A little _too_ close for my liking.” I growled, shutting the door behind us.

“Yes, it was…” Marthe sat down at the table. She looked at me with a frown. “I’m sorry I lost my temper. Look, Hans, you’re charming and intelligent, and you _are_ very handsome. I can see why women go for you. But how was I _supposed_ to feel when you treated me that way? But God knows I’ve had soldiers say and do much worse things to me.” She said in a low voice. For just a moment, she looked frightened. Vulnerable. But her expression changed so quickly I half-wondered if I had imagined it. “Most German soldiers are real barbarians. They’re loudmouthed and arrogant and they like to drink themselves into a stupor. And we French girls are simply a commodity to them. A quick lay they can enjoy without consequences.” Here she rolled her eyes. “Terribly sorry to rain on your parade, but I’m just being pragmatic. I don’t want to be known as a tramp who spreads her legs for the Germans. It’s a small town, Lieutenant, and people do like to gossip.”

I took a few steps closer to her, but made no move to sit. “Your feelings are perfectly understandable. I may not be German, but I can’t imagine that matters to you. I _am_ still the enemy, after all. You have good reason for being distrustful. Once again, I am very sorry. You are right to feel as you do.” I sat down across from her. “But I wish you wouldn’t see me as the enemy, Marthe. I am just a man, and in many ways no different from you. We each have dreams, hopes, and desires. I have no ill feelings toward you, quite the opposite. Truth be told, I’m not even sure what I’m fighting for or what I believe in.”

I don’t know why I confided so freely in this girl. She was, of course, a stranger. But I had been trapped in the trenches for months on end, deprived of human contact except for my men. I couldn’t remember the last time I had seen a woman, let alone spoken to one. She awakened something in me I had thought long buried. Something beyond base sexual urges. I hoped I could gain her trust by reaching out to her. Showing her I was human.

I watched her face, her body language. Her features softened a bit, and she relaxed.

“You seem very kind.” she said slowly. “You certainly do have a way with words. I’ve never met anyone half as eloquent as you are.”

I found myself smiling her. “It’s uncontestably one of my better qualities. And you…You seem a little unusual yourself, mademoiselle. If you’ll pardon my saying so. Most of the country girls I’ve met have been, well, rather simple. You’re intelligent, and articulate, and you can match wits with me. That’s impressive. Do you have any dreams? Ambitions?” I leaned forward, studying her.

Marthe hesitated for just a moment. I’m certain she thought I didn’t notice, but I did. “I always wanted to be a lawyer- which must sound quite silly, I know. Women aren’t lawyers. Most of the girls here are married with babies in their bellies by time they’re twenty. I’m already twenty-one.” she gave me a look of undisguised disgust. “At least my parents let me work. But they put so much pressure on me to settle down and find someone…” she sighed and shook her head.

I reached across the table to rest a hand on hers. “I see. You have my sympathies. Parents are not always tolerant or understanding, I know.”

She smiled at me. I felt like my labors were finally beginning to pay off.

We stayed there a while, discussing various mundane things. I felt myself growing conflicted. I was a young man, I had my urges. Was I physically attracted to Marthe? Of course, undeniably. But I also felt a connection to her. We were both young people, trying to find our way in a world torn apart by war. We had more in common than I had ever realized. I still wanted to be intimate with her, but I also wouldn’t be devastated if her answer remained the same. I didn’t want to press the matter, either.

I was surprised in the best possible way when she told me: “Look, Hans, I’ve given it a lot of thought. And I’ve decided…I do want to sleep with you. But _please_ don’t make me regret it, my parents must never know…” she looked at me nervously.

“Your parents will never hear of this. They will remain blissfully unaware.” I assured her. I stood and took a deep breath. “I will do my best to be gentle. I know our circumstances are not exactly ideal…”

I removed my tunic and spread it on the ground. That would have to serve as our blanket. As always, I was grateful for the small rectangular tin in my pocket. I was not willing to risk getting a girl pregnant. We made love, and it brought me so much relief. It was the best possible distraction. She had a beautiful body. When we were through, I wrapped my arms around her waist and held her close. I stroked her hair.

In some ways, I did not feel twenty-two years old. I thought about twenty-two-year-olds whose lives were untouched by the war. I had nothing in common with them. I had already seen so many men die, some of my friends among them. The monotony of trench life threatened to drive me mad. When would the war be over? It already seemed like it had been going on forever. I enjoyed being an officer, but I despised the conditions I was forced to live in. I was already so sick to death of it all. I wanted to go home.

Eventually, we managed to get up and dress.

“Thank you, Marthe. Being with you was a lovely experience, one I won’t soon forget. And thank you for trusting me.” I very softly said to her.

“You’re welcome. I admit, I misjudged you before.” She said, looking mildly embarrassed.

“You have nothing to be sorry for.” I insisted. “Farewell, Marthe.”

We emerged back into the tavern, and went our separate ways. I never saw Marthe again, but she seemed like a fascinating young woman. I hope she went on to lead a happy and fulfilling life. Our encounter was one of very few bright spots during the war.

  
  


In the end, I was extremely fortunate. I never lost a limb or suffered a major injury. The war failed to break my mind, either. Alas, I cannot say the same for Willi. I can still remember the day the light went out of his eyes. He was never the same afterwards.

After the war, he went mad and had to be institutionalized. He had a breakdown. That was what people called it. It sounds almost benign, doesn’t it? Sanitized. When something is broken, you pick up the pieces and put it back together again. No such luck for poor Willi. I clearly remember going to see him.

I had to sign the visitor’s book at the front desk. Then, a nurse in a stiff white uniform escorted me down a long, winding, hallway. I wondered how anyone found their way around here. We walked past a room where patients sat around a table, playing cards. They appeared almost normal. We passed a few patients wandering around in the halls. They were all the same to me, these shuffling figures in thin white gowns, all dangling arms and legs. They stared at me with _curiosity._ The way, I imagine, a wild animal looks at a fresh cut of meat. It was unnerving.

The nurse, of course, said nothing. Because it was her job, and she was used to it. But I could almost _feel_ their eyes watching me as we rounded the corridor. Then, finally, we arrived outside his room. He was in a padded cell. Yes, as cliched as they are, they are very much real. I watched as the nurse fumbled around for her ring of keys.

“Am…Am I allowed to go in with him?” I asked.

She smiled thinly. “You can. As long as you’re with a staff member, you’re perfectly safe.” She held up a wicked metal syringe that glinted in the institutional lighting. “I always carry _this_ with me just in case a patient gets violent. You’re in good hands, young man.”

We went inside together. There was Willi, pacing restlessly around the room and muttering to himself. His hair had grown long and tangled, and he also sported a matted beard. Every so often, he would start hitting the padded walls with his fists, as though attacking some unseen enemy.

“Herr Schroder? Herr Schroder, there is someone here to see you…” The nurse approached him. She spoke with the same voice one would use on a child. “You remember Leutnant Landa, don’t you?”

Willi said nothing. He only stared at me.

I tentatively came closer. I wondered if he recognized me, if he knew me. I searched his face for any trace of my old comrade, my old friend, but there was none. And then the strangest expression came over his face. It was almost… _Placid._ He smiled at me.

“I remember you!” he said slowly. “You’re Hansi, our little farm boy!” he cuffed me on my shoulder.

“Yes, Willi. That’s right.” I whispered. My heart sank. He was still in the war.

After that, I couldn’t bear to see Willi again. I had my own life to return to, while he remained trapped in the past. Perhaps forever. I never did find out what became of him, or if he ever recovered. In those days, there was no name for his condition. That is, except for the almost quaint moniker of shell shock.

There was nothing anyone could do for these men. They were destitute, living on the streets or in and out of institutions. It was only through sheer good fortune that I did not join them. To this day, I still think of Willi. For me, he became the face of the war, and everyone else not quite as lucky as I was. We joined the war as boys, and we returned home as men with old souls. If we came home at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If anyone wants to listen to Der treue Husar, here's a link: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zDPi5GAiXwM


	14. In the Flesh

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aldo comes to say his goodbyes.

In early August, Aldo came all the way from Tennessee to visit Hans. He had called them a few days before to let them know he was coming. Hans was looking forward to it, though Sylvia felt a little nervous- she wasn’t really sure why. One stifling afternoon, Sylvia listened attentively as she heard someone banging on the door.

“That’s probably Aldo. I’ll get him for you.” She rose from her chair and began walking to the door.

“Very good…I really am looking forward to seeing him again. It’s been much too long. Oh, and angel?”

“Hmm?” Hans’ voice stopped her in her tracks.

“Just remember our little discussion: No pity.”

“I will. I’ll make sure he gets the message loud and clear…” Sylvia assured him.

She went down the stairs and went to the front door to let Aldo in. Though older, he still looked much the same as she remembered. Even gray-haired and slimmer, it was good to see he hadn’t lost those rugged good looks.

“Hey, I’m glad you could make it.” She greeted him, smiling. “Please, come in. Hans really wants to see you…”

Aldo entered the house, sweeping past Sylvia.

“So…About how long do you reckon he has left?” he softly asked, glancing up the stairs.

Sylvia swallowed hard. She forced herself to meet his eyes. “Two months at most, but I don’t think we’re going to get that lucky.” She admitted.

Aldo briefly touched her shoulder. There was sympathy in his eyes. “I see. I don’t want to sound like a broken record, but I’m real sorry. You’re gonna miss him like hell when he’s gone.”

She nodded wordlessly, blinking back tears.

Aldo began walking toward the stairs. Sylvia hurried after him.

“Aldo, wait.”

Aldo froze with one foot on the stairs. He raised an eyebrow. “What? Got somethin’ to tell me? Just make it quick, all right?”

Sylvia took a deep breath. “Hans doesn’t want your pity. Or _anyone’s_ pity. He doesn’t want to be coddled and treated with kid gloves just because he’s dying.”

Aldo chuckled. “Yeah, well, he ain’t gettin’ my pity, that’s for damn sure. I’m just gonna head up there and shoot the shit with him. You know, like old times.”

Sylvia gave him a relieved smile. “Great, I’m glad we’re on the same page. Well, you two have fun. I’ll be down here if you need anything.”

“Will do.” Aldo smirked at her and disappeared up the stairs.

Aldo hesitated outside the bedroom door. Wondering what awful sight awaited him. It was one thing to _hear_ about it and talk on the phone, but seeing Hans in person was something else entirely. So the notorious Jew Hunter was dying. Privately, Aldo thought there was something karmic about a slow and painful death. Of course, he would never say that to Sylvia!

Time to get a look at the future carcass himself… Aldo opened the door and slowly went inside. The man in the bed seemed a far cry from the arrogant nazi colonel. He was thin, frail, dressed in pajamas. There were oxygen tubes in his nose. It was shocking to see Hans so ravaged by illness. Whatever words he was going to say disappeared from his lips. Insulting a man on his deathbed seemed like very poor taste, even if that man **was** a former nazi.

Hans noticed Aldo’s shocked expression, but only smiled. “Well, if it isn’t Aldo the Apache…It has been a while, hasn’t it?” He said laughingly.

Aldo scratched at his neck. He felt almost rooted to the spot. “Yeah, sure has been.” He muttered under his breath.

Hans motioned for him to come closer. “Come, keep me company. I don’t bite, you know…”

Aldo rolled his eyes. “Yeah, yeah, you can fuckin' say that again.” He trudged forward and took a seat beside the bed.

They regarded each other for a moment. Former enemies. They were never really friends, but they had a begrudging respect for each other.

“So. You’re dyin’.” Aldo matter-of-factly stated. He felt like he needed to get that out of the way.

“Yes, I’m afraid I am.” Hans sighed, leaning back against the pillows. “Sylvia has been taking excellent care of me all this time. We are devoted to each other.”

“Well ain’t that sweet.” Aldo quipped.

Hans carried on, pretending not to hear him. “I don’t have much time left. Perhaps a few more months at the most…” He doubted he would get that long. Maybe he could make it to the end of the month, but any longer seemed doubtful.

Aldo nodded slightly. “Yeah, she told me. So, how does it feel, dyin’? You got all your shit taken care of?”

Hans sniffed disdainfully, insulted Aldo would think otherwise. “Of course I do! In fact, it was the first thing I did. I called my lawyer and put all my affairs in order. It was a very tedious process, I admit, but it gave me a measure of relief.” Sylvia knew what he wanted, but even so, it was still important to have his wishes spelled out in writing. He did not want to die in an intensive care room, hooked up to machines and drugged into oblivion. No, he would die a natural and peaceful death at home.

Aldo gave him a wry smile. “Can’t say I’m surprised. You’re one thorough son-of-a-bitch.”

“Always.” Hans replied, more than a little smug. “And as for your other question…It varies wildly from day to day. There are some days I feel almost healthy, and some days I have severe pain. Sometimes I can walk and sometimes I cannot. It is difficult as well as unpredictable.” He spread his hands.

Aldo frowned, narrowed his eyes. He looked at Hans in a scrutinizing way. Trying to figure out what was going on inside his head. “I bet you regret joinin’ up with the nah-zis now, don’t you?”

“Not a day goes by that I don’t think about it.” Hans shot back. He leaned forward and sat up straighter. He kept his expression cool, neutral. “To say it is the biggest regret of my life is a gross understatement. Alas, I cannot change the past. I have spent the rest of my life trying to atone for what I have done. But I fear it will never be enough.” He exhaled. A deeply pained, haunted, look came over his face.

Aldo was satisfied with that. His guilt seemed to be genuine. “You know, you’re real lucky to have a woman who puts up with your shit. You know that?” He jabbed a finger at Hans.

“I am. I am very fortunate indeed. Now, if you’re quite done admonishing me, why don’t we talk about _your_ life for a change?”

Aldo snorted. “There’s not much to tell, my life is pretty borin’ these days.”

“I beg to differ!” Hans gave him the most pleading look he knew.

Aldo scowled and crossed his arms, looking almost like a sullen child. “All right, all right, if you insist…Jeezus, you’re persistent.”

Hans looked extremely pleased with himself.

Aldo told Hans about what was going on with his various family members, and the vacation he had just gotten back from. Hans listened intently. He was genuinely interested. As the afternoon wore on, Aldo got Sylvia to bring them drinks. Hans had wine while Aldo had beer. Hans had never been a heavy drinker, and he was not supposed to drink on his medication, but then, he was also dying. Why not indulge a little?

“Now **this** is really nice. This is actually pretty good shit…” Aldo admitted, downing another mouthful of beer. He wiped his mouth on the back of his hand. “Look, Hans, I know I give you a lotta shit for bein’ a nah-zi. I know you’ve cleaned up your act, but like you said, you can’t change the past neither. But I feel bad for y’all two. I really do. It’s the worst goddamn thing in the world, losin’ someone you love like this. And I think these are gonna be some very difficult times for both y’all. Sylvia…God, she’s gonna be a real mess once you’re gone.”

“I know. She will be.” Hans said quietly, solemnly. That had been at the forefront of his mind ever since his diagnosis. He reached for the glass on the nightstand and had one last sip of his red wine.

Again, they just looked at each other for a moment. Saying nothing. Then, Aldo gave Hans a stiff, awkward, hug. It was the last thing Hans had ever expected from the younger man, but it was certainly not unwelcome.

“I’m gonna miss you, you crazy old nah-zi fuck.” Aldo whispered, pulling away. He was smiling sadly as he said it.

“So this is goodbye.” Hans said softly, clasping his hands.

Aldo stood beside the bed. He seemed much less tense and more relaxed now. “Yeah. I reckon it is. Be seein’ ya.” He gave Hans a firm handshake, then turned and left.

Aldo found Sylvia sitting in the living room, reading a book.

“Hey. I’m leavin’ now.” He announced, leaning against the doorframe.

Sylvia put aside her book on the coffee table. “Oh, come on. At least stay for dinner?” She pleaded.

“Nah. I’d love to, but I gotta run. Places to go, people to see, you know, the usual…”

Aldo began walking to the front door, and Sylvia followed him.

“Did you have a good visit?” she asked.

Aldo stopped, then turned to face her. “Yeah, I sure did. Hans is the same stuck-up ass I remember. Some folks really do never change.” He shook his head.

Aldo walked down the front steps and began walking away. Sylvia lingered in the doorway.

“Y’all keep on takin’ care of yourselves, ya hear?” he called after her.

“We will!” Sylvia shouted after him. She waved at his retreating form. She watched him walk slowly down the road until he was out of sight. Then and only then did she go back inside.

“So, did you and Aldo have a good time?” Sylvia asked. She was barely able to keep a straight face. They had just finished eating dinner.

“As close to good as it could possibly be!” Hans spluttered, laughing. “Aldo was, well, himself. In other words, not exactly agreeable. But we managed to have a lovely conversation nonetheless. He said he would miss me, and I truly believe that he will.”

“I’ll miss you, too.” Sylvia murmured, burying her face in his shoulder.

“I know, I know…” Hans hugged her tightly. “I understand how difficult this is. But you are so strong and _so very brave._ You will persevere. Think of everything we survived during the war. That makes all of this seem like child’s play, doesn’t it?”

“I’m not so sure.” Sylvia admitted, looking at him fearfully.

Hans squeezed her shoulder. He looked so calm. Peaceful. He said in a low voice: “I will always love you. **Always.** Not even death can stop that. Is that understood?”

Sylvia gave a tiny nod. “Yes.” She whispered.

“Very good…”

The rest of their day was calm and quiet. They fell asleep holding each other, as they always did. Even at the height of summer, they craved warmth and physical closeness. As if, by holding onto each other, they could delay death just a little longer.


	15. Forever is our today

It was both the shortest and the longest summer of Sylvia’s life. Some days were muggy and oppressively hot, others were mild and almost springlike. The days fell into a pattern. Hans always spent at least a few hours a day writing, and Sylvia took care not to interrupt him. But other than that, they were inseparable. Sylvia tried to make every day with him last as long as possible, because- God forbid- she might not get another. 

Sometimes, she was glad she didn’t know when Hans was going to die. It was almost a relief. Other times, the uncertainty filled her with dread. Any day could be his last. He probably wouldn’t make it to October. They both knew that. At first, that had been difficult for Sylvia to accept. But she had more or less come to terms with it.

She knew it drove Hans crazy, being so weak and sometimes unable to walk. Even in his eighties, he had been active, busy, and had a fuller life than many young people she knew. Now his world was reduced to the house and the yard. They found ways to pass the time. They read books together, and could spend hours discussing just about anything. Still, they both knew it was no substitute for the life he had lost. Hans’ mind was as restless and brilliant as ever, even as his body failed him.

There were a few times they discussed going to the beach. But Hans could only walk short distances, and they decided it just wasn’t worth the physical risk. So they spent their days at home, trying to make the most of the time they had left. But time was not on their side. Each day brought them closer to the end, and all they could do was wait for it.

In August, they finished Hans’ memoir. Sylvia had been taking dictation from him after he became too weak to write.

“…And that’s it. We’re finished.” Hans announced.

It was night. Sylvia sat beside him, busy taking dictation- at least, she _had_ been. Her fingers froze as she suddenly stopped typing.

“You’re sure?” she asked, looking to him.

“Yes. I am certain.” Hans sat back against the pillows. There was a faint, placid, smile on his lips.

Sylvia could hardly believe this day was here. On one hand, she was happy- and relieved- Hans was able to finish his memoir before his imminent death. On the other hand…It was another reminder of how little time they had left. She was so frightened of being alone. And going on without him.

“I guess this calls for a celebration, doesn’t it?” she said, exhaling.

“Oh, you’re quite right. It does. I, for one, am _very_ curious to know what you’re planning…” Hans leaned forward and gave her a mischievous look.

They indulged in a bit of champagne. After Sylvia poured them each a glass, they clinked glasses. It was, perhaps, the last time they would drink together. The champagne tasted sour, and their glasses were slick with condensation. It was hard for Sylvia to truly feel happy. She could not stop thinking about what this meant for Hans, for both of them. He probably did not have much time left. And that scared her more than anything.

She was right: Hans died less than a week later.

It was a tragic and deeply painful summer. Any happy memories were like an oasis in a barren desert. But there was one that stood out in Sylvia’s mind. One she knew she would cherish forever. Their last waltz. She couldn’t remember who suggested it, or how the subject came up, but it didn’t matter.

First, they had to wait for a day Hans felt well enough. It was deeply frustrating for both of them, having to plan their lives around his illness. But eventually, the day came, and they were ready. The record player was in the living room, but Sylvia was not about to make Hans walk all the way down the stairs. Not for something relatively short. Still, she found a solution. They _did_ have a small cassette player that would suit their needs. And, as it happened, a cassette tape labeled Vienna Blood.

At first, it was a bit awkward and took some trial and error. They were, after all, older and out of practice. They also had to be careful not to trip on Hans’ oxygen tubing. But they still had the muscle memory. Before too long, they settled back into the rhythm.

They were neither as fast nor as graceful as they were thirty-five years ago, but that didn’t matter. They still remembered all the steps. Everything came back to them with a surprising ease. As before, there was an unshakeable trust between them. Sylvia let herself get lost in the moment. The rest of the world fell away. She forgot Hans was dying. She leaned into his touch, let him lead her, guide her. The whole time, she felt like her feet barely touched the floor.

 _I trust you._ It was something that went unspoken between them. Because it didn’t _need_ to be said, it simply was. They couldn’t have danced for very long, but it felt almost like an eternity. When they finished, Hans had to sit down on the side of the bed to catch his breath. But he looked at Sylvia with the biggest grin on his face.

“Our final waltz…We did very well, didn’t we?”

“We did. Better than I ever imagined.” Sylvia agreed. She sat down beside Hans and gently hugged him to her.

She would hold on to that memory forever. It eased her pain just a little when things were difficult.

So this was what it felt like, being on the edge of everything. Running headlong into darkness. She remembered holding Hans and whispering to him: “I’m here, _liebling._ And I’ll be with you until the very end.” Tears rolled down her cheeks, and her voice shook.

And he had said: “So will I.”

Soon there wouldn’t _be_ a we or an us. She would be on her own. It was overwhelming to think about. Sylvia only felt safe with him. There had always been an intense bond between them, an unspoken language, even. But she had never known closeness or emotional intimacy like this. They held each other because they were all they had.

Sylvia remembered something Hans had told her once. It was a few days after he had come home from the hospital, and the surgery was behind them. They were both a bit exhausted. Slowly but surely getting back to normal life.

“I am a _very_ lucky man, Sylvia. A considerable amount of people don’t even live to be seventy-seven. But I’ve made it this far, and I’m still enjoying life- in fact, I have much to look forward to. I may not be in the greatest physical condition at the moment- but, as they say, this too shall pass. I intend to go on living as long as I can. But only as long as I’m _living,_ not merely existing. Please don’t take this the wrong way, angel. I’ve lived seventy-seven full and satisfying years. Anything after this is, put simply, a bonus.”

She had forgotten about that conversation until Hans got sick again. Then it became more relevant than ever. She couldn’t let him go on suffering. That would be cruel, and unfair to both of them. When his time came, she would let him go. It would break her into a thousand pieces, but it was the right thing to do. She would set him free.

On the days leading up to the anniversary, Sylvia could not stop thinking about Hans. She thought back to what he once said, about becoming part of everything. The idea was strange yet comforting. She thought about what that meant. He became part of the passing of time, the changing seasons, the tide, and the wind in the trees. Somehow, that gave her more comfort than the idea of heaven ever would. So she would look for him in everything. In blue skies and sunny days and the ocean lapping against the shore.

When Sylvia awoke on August 19th, there was a slight breeze, the curtains billowing against the half-open window. It could change later in the day, but for now it was pleasantly cool. She didn’t feel like she could enjoy much of anything. Not today. But for Hans’ sake, she would still try. _I’ll try to find you in every beautiful day._ She knew he would have been proud of her just for trying.  
  
  


The night of the anniversary, Sylvia had a dream. Hans stood knee-deep in the sea, looking the way he did in 1944. Their eyes met. Hans looked overjoyed to see her. She ran to him, almost flying over the sand, the wind making her dress flutter. She barely even felt the cold, salty, water against her skin. Hans gently picked her up and swung her around, the sun shining down on them. She was surrounded by sea and sky, and she felt wonderfully happy. Free. She wished, more than anything, that this moment could last forever.

Hans held her in his arms, and she clung to him.

“I thought I’d never see you again.” Sylvia whispered, looking into his eyes.

Hans tilted his head slightly, grinning. “Did you? Well then, I’m sorry to disappoint you. You won’t get rid of me so easily...” He brushed away her tears.

“I love you.” She said. After all this time, it was still an instinct.

“I love you, too.” Hans’ voice was soft, gentle.

The wind hissed around them, and the water lapped against their bodies.

When Sylvia awoke the next morning and realized it was a dream, she almost wanted to cry. But she didn’t. In fact, she felt better than she had in a long time. Yes, it had been a dream, but it was so achingly beautiful. She felt reassured somehow. The dream gave her a strength she badly needed. From then on, she thought about it whenever she felt down. It felt almost _real._ And maybe, for just one moment, it had been.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title: From a line in Who Wants to Live Forever, by Queen
> 
> For a while, I was a bit stuck on what I wanted to call this chapter. But then I listened to Who Wants to Live Forever, and it was PERFECT! It's such a poignant and emotional song.


	16. On Living and Dying

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Another experiment in first person!

Dying is so easy. Living, if you’ll pardon my language, is fucking hard. When a loved one dies, you’re left behind to pick up the pieces. You have to protect their legacy and learn to live without them. Am I doing what he or she would have wanted? You constantly ask yourself- at least, _I_ did. Hans’ death was anticipatory. We had a plan. That didn’t make it any easier. Now I’m the executor of his estate, and yeah, it’s not really what it’s cracked up to be. All his papers and other worldly goods are now mine. I can’t sell his clothes, or his cologne, or anything else that belonged to him. I just can’t do it.

Hans should be the one promoting the book, not me. It’s _his_ book, he spent the last year of his life working on it. When you saw how passionate he was about it, it was hard not to get a little excited, too. Me, I can barely face the mailman or supermarket cashier these days, let alone speak in front of an audience. That was Hans’ talent, not mine. When my own time comes, I don’t think I’ll be nearly as brave as he was. He was candid, charming, and he told it like it was. He was never in denial about his situation. Me? I was a goddamn mess. I ran into his arms and cried because I couldn’t handle it. Isn’t that pathetic?

Hans knew this book would be his legacy. Something that would live beyond him. I see that now. I’m so proud I was able to help him finish it- and he _did_ finish it. When he died, he was at peace, and he knew his last wishes would be honored. Seeing his book in stores gives me such mixed feelings. Hans should be here signing copies, giving speeches, doing tours, the whole nine yards. I’ve managed a few half-assed speaking engagements, but that’s all. I don’t like the limelight. I don’t like talking about a story that’s not mine to tell. I know, I know, Hans said it was okay. He wanted me to. He said it was _our_ story, not just his. But I still feel like it wouldn’t be right. I know Hans is probably disappointed in me.

Still, it makes me immensely happy to know his story is out there in the world. No one will ever know Hans the way I did, but his story can be a window into our lives. A portrait of those thirty-five years. Thirty-five years. It’s still crazy to me. It feels like forever and it feels like yesterday. Hans had a good death. I try to focus on that. He died in my arms, he was afraid, but he knew, wherever he was going, he wouldn’t be in pain anymore. I admit, there were times I got annoyed with Hans for acting like a grief counselor. Now I’m so glad he did. He wasn’t trying to be patronizing or downplay the situation. He gave me the tools I needed to cope. He gave me the strength to keep moving forward, even when I feel like I can’t. Fuck, most days I still feel like I can’t.

“You don’t have to be strong all the time.” He once told me.

I’ve tried to take those words to heart. No, I can’t always be strong, and you know what? That’s okay. And so I keep trying. I get through each day. I’m existing, but I’m looking forward to the day I can live again. It might be sooner than I think. So, like the stubborn old woman I am, I keep walking through the darkness. The memory of love lights my path.


	17. A Certain Slant of Light

It happened on a bitterly cold night in January. Sylvia let Solo out and, ten minutes later, he still hadn’t returned. She sighed, put on her coat and boots, and went out to look for him.

“Solo! Solo, where are you?” She called into the snowy silence.

Then, in the distance, she saw him. Standing between some trees with snow-laden branches. Sylvia managed to smile. She went to him, tugging her scarf tighter around her neck.

“Solo, you naughty boy! What were you thinking, running off on me like that?” she crooned, dropping to his level and scratching him behind the ears. Solo whined and sniffed her curiously.

Looking toward the house, Sylvia could see a trail of her footprints in the snow. Solo’s pawprints were close by. _Will anyone remember us in a hundred years? Is that all we are, footprints in the snow?_ She found herself thinking.

She began slowly walking back to the house, Solo leaping and bounding beside her. He always cheered her up on her darker days. Still, she had something on her mind right now. Something she had been thinking about a while. Sylvia didn’t believe in ghosts. Didn’t believe in the supernatural, period. But lately, she had been experiencing strange things she couldn’t explain.

There were times she felt Hans’ presence. In that gray area between sleeping and waking, she could feel him lying there with his arms around her waist. In her head, she heard a barely-audible whisper: _Don’t be frightened, angel, I’m here…_ Sometimes, when she woke up, the other side of the bed was inexplicably warm. But these occurrences, she told herself, were wishful thinking. They were illusions. Fantasies created by a grieving mind.

Stranger still, sometimes she _smelled_ things that weren’t there: Hans’ cologne. The sharp, coppery, smell of blood. There were days she couldn’t get out of bed. Days that twenty years- or however long it took- seemed like an impossible challenge. On these days, she had no energy, no desire to do anything. She was numb to everything. She lay in bed all day, only getting up to eat and feed Solo.

She would lay there and think of Hans. _I’m still so in love with you. I never stopped loving you._ She thought. She always felt closer to him when she was outside, in nature. At a beach, or in a meadow or a forest, or looking up at a starry night sky. There were times she felt him with her. Especially at night, getting ready for bed, when his absence was more painful than ever. Maybe she was going crazy, but it was comforting nonetheless.

Sylvia thought about that as she prepared for bed that night. She changed into her pajamas, brushed her teeth, then looked out the window for a while. The world was still. Everything was blanketed in snow. It was peaceful, but it did nothing to ease her mind. She crossed the room and got into bed.

“I miss, you, Hans. I miss you every single day, and I probably always will.” She said quietly. She could almost feel him beside her in the blue winter night. Then, she lay down and tried to sleep. As Sylvia drifted off, she was lulled to sleep by an odd combination of sounds: Distant television static. The wind in the trees. Hans’ voice, however faint, letting her know that everything really would be all right.


	18. I dissolve in trust, I will sing with joy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The death scene from Hans' perspective.

Hans knew he was dying. Well, he had known that since June, and come to terms with it. But he was dying _now._ He was afraid. How could he not be? He was afraid of the unknown, but he was at peace with himself. He was ready to leave, to go somewhere without pain. Hans didn’t believe in an afterlife. But he wished there was a place he could walk without limping, without a sharp, stabbing, pain in his back, a place he could breathe without feeling short of breath. Maybe there was.

But he hated to leave Sylvia. If not for her, he probably would have died months ago. Without her, without their family, he had nothing to live for. He wondered how she would survive without him, and wished he didn’t have to leave her. She was crying as she held him, tears coursing down her cheeks. He had always hated to see her cry.

“I love you.” She gasped, her voice raw from crying.

“I love you too, angel. Forever.” Hans replied without hesitation.

Hans felt his chest tighten. It was getting harder and harder to breathe. His breaths were fast and shallow now. For a long time, they said nothing, and just looked into each other’s eyes. The room was silent except for the sound of his breathing. It felt like time had stopped. As Hans looked into his wife’s gray eyes, he saw the pain and fear in them. He wished there was something he could say or do to reassure her. To let her know everything would be all right. After all these years, he could still picture her as the young woman he’d met thirty-five years ago. With her matted blonde hair, her eyes full of stubborn hatred, and an almost feral resentment.

She could not be farther from that person now. Now she was vulnerable, afraid, and he was about to leave her. Then Sylvia said she was afraid, and Hans said he was, too. Another silence.

Hans wasn’t in pain at all. In fact, he felt physically lightened. He still felt a bit short of breath, but it was easier to breathe now. It was a mild summer day, and sunlight streamed in from a nearby window. It was not a bad way to die, surrounded by warmth and light, in the arms of the woman he loved. In fact, it was the kind of death he’d always wanted. He wondered if he would lay on the grass watching the stars ever again. He did not believe in an afterlife, but he still hoped there was _something._

Hans had countless regrets, had done things he could never fully atone for. But life was beautiful, and he was so, so, lucky for getting to experience it. He had known love, and the joy of being a parent. He was fortunate enough to know his granddaughters, even if he would not live to see them grow up. He had lived for eighty-five years. That was more than some people ever got. It was more than he deserved. He thought about his book. His book was his legacy, his words would live long beyond him. His memoir- besides his family- was his greatest accomplishment, and he was proud of himself for being able to finish it. He would always be grateful to Sylvia for all her help. Especially near the end.

Sylvia was a strong woman. If anyone could survive grief, it was her. But it would be the hardest thing she would ever do- they both knew that.

Suddenly, Hans knew his time was up. There was something he needed to say before he died… Something he wanted her to know. He grabbed Sylvia’s hand and squeezed it as hard as he could. He told her, in a firm but gentle voice:

“My brave girl…You can do this, I know you can…I’ll always be with you. I promise…”

Hans laid his head back on the pillow and closed his eyes. His chest heaved as he took his last breath. As everything faded away, he was afraid of what lay ahead. But her love had set him free.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know, I know, I’m DONE with this story; but I got struck with inspiration today and just had to write this.
> 
> Chapter title = lyrics from Heaven, by Depeche Mode


	19. Epilogue: Five Years Later

_When I look back on my life, I feel contented. At least, for the most part. On the other hand, I have spent the past three decades with the shadow of my atrocities hanging over me. My crimes are simply irrevocable. I have spent so much time struggling with the question of whether I even deserve happiness? And I still believe that the answer is no. I have tried to spend the rest of my life as a good and honorable man, but even that is not enough. I cannot take back what I did to so many innocent men, women, and children whose only crime was being Jewish._

_Without Sylvia, my life would be a lonely and desolate one indeed. We have made a happy, simple, life for ourselves in America. Our family continues to be our greatest pride and joy. We have a daughter- who we are immensely proud of- and two beautiful grandchildren, who I am confident will grow up into fine young women._

_But any day now, I will leave them. Although my mind is still sharp, my body is steadily failing. By my own estimate, I have only a few days left. I’m not afraid of death itself. It’s the unknown that frightens me. As I am not a religious man, I do not believe there is a heaven or hell awaiting me. Still, I hope there is something. The idea of an afterlife is strange to me, because it goes against everything I believe. Perhaps death is like an endless sleep. Perhaps death is nothing. And yet, as ridiculous as this may sound, I hope I will still exist in some capacity._

_Perhaps death is simply becoming part of everything. I once had the strangest dream about that, and I still think about it to this day. It doesn’t sound so awful, really. I think I could accept that. But of course, I don’t know for sure. And until that day comes, I can only speculate. I shall go peacefully to my death._

_Sylvia, I want you to know this: I love you now, and I will love you forever. Even after I am gone._ Servus.

August 19th, 1984

Sylvia walked slowly down the dirt road, late-afternoon sun shining down on her. She was surrounded by rolling green hills and quaint, rustic, old farmhouses. Cows grazed contentedly in their pastures and buttercups bloomed in the meadows. She was in the Austrian countryside. There was nothing here but farmland, and Vienna was practically another planet. Hans had been born in this area ninety years ago. Nearly a century ago. As old as dust. She still couldn’t get used to thinking of her husband that way. Even in his final years he had been active, lively, right up until he got sick. There were times _she_ had felt older than him.

Sylvia missed Solo terribly, but he was at a kennel, being taken care of by people who spoiled him rotten. She could hardly wait to see him again. He would be so happy to see her when she got back…

Time seemed to move much slower here. In some ways, it had barely changed at all since Hans was a child. And maybe that wasn’t such a bad thing. Going to the place where Hans was born made her feel closer to him. _I’ve got a bit of you with me._ She thought, fingering the thin gold chain around her neck. His wedding band hung there.

In his memoir, Hans had spoken about growing up on the farm. He had played, gotten up early to milk the cows, and read countless books. She wondered if that serious boy had ever dreamed what his life would become. When Hans was a child, he probably couldn’t conceive of a world beyond the endless pastures, soft meadows, and blue skies. America must have seemed like another world. Now he was across the ocean, buried in a quiet cemetery.

She suddenly stopped walking. She looked at one particular farmhouse, looming in the background. It was ordinary. No different from all the others. But it was where Hans had been born all those years ago. Sylvia slowly went up to the fence. Leaned against it. She debated whether to go up to the house, go inside. Part of her wanted to so badly.

But after ninety years, was the house still in the family? They had probably sold it long ago. If that were the case, she would have to explain herself. And the new owners weren’t any under obligation to let her in. _No, I don’t want to look strange…_ Sylvia looked at the house, then at the dusty road beyond. She made her choice.

She turned and continued walking down the road. Towards the nearest village. But she was in no hurry. Sylvia thought back to Hans’ last words to her: _I’ll always be with you. I promise._ She had never believed them until now. But they were true. He _was_ with her, and always would be. For the first time in five years, she was at peace.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And we’re done! I really enjoyed writing this story, and it has been such an emotional journey for me. Special thanks to AttendezLaCreme. Velvet Waltz affected me deeply, and inspired me to write my own stories about Hans and Sylvia. The fact you’ve enjoyed and supported my writing has been a lovely bonus. Bridge was never intended to be this big thing, oh no. I originally wrote it as a standalone one-off. But somehow, it became a novella. How did that happen?! I’m sad this story has come to an end, but I couldn’t be happier with how it turned out.


End file.
